Around the Bend
by JennWithAPenn
Summary: SEQUEL TO "SAY SOMETHING." Anne and Gilbert are in love, newly engaged, and hoping for a summer full of only one thing: each other! Will the season be as simple and sweet as they wish it to be? This story picks up right where Say Something leaves off.
1. The Rumor Mill Works Overtime, & Gladly

**This story is a sequel to Say Something.**

_AN: This story picks up right where Say Something leaves off, and as such is an AU. I am proud to announce (with a tear) that it is now complete! After a tumultuous end to their fourth year at Redmond, Anne and Gilbert are in love, engaged, and hoping to get as much of each other as they can before Gilbert begins medical school in the fall. Will the summer be as simple and sweet as they wish it to be?_

_And of course, a big thank you to L.M. Montgomery for creating such wonderful, beautifully developed characters. It is a great privilege to write them!_

**Around the Bend**

**Chapter 1: The Rumor Mill Works Overtime, and Gladly  
**

K+

Spring had begun its slow exit in Avonlea; summer was approaching, and its eminent return was felt by all. Delicate lilies turned their heads up to the sun, basking in its abundant rays, while berry thickets bore their growing burdens proudly, and the Lake of Shining Waters beckoned all who passed by to dip their toes into its cool depths. Children skipped along dirt roads, singing songs and kicking up dust, while bees buzzed happily among the flowers of even the tiniest gardens.

Yes, a change of season was in the air. Yet there was something else which buzzed through the atmosphere of Avonlea, carried by cool morning breezes and warm evening ones. It danced about the town, traveling faster than even the birds and bees—rumors. Like any other small town, Avonlea was a breeding ground for gossip. Even its most reserved inhabitants were not opposed to taking part in the spreading of a good tale, and the latest piece of news was certainly worth mentioning to two or three neighbors at the least. Since the story's first appearance less than two days before, it had spread to every corner of the town, and to every pair of ears within its limits. Each time the news was told, the conversation followed a similar tune.

"Did you hear that Anne Shirley is engaged to Gilbert Blythe?" the informant would say to the informed, with a degree of importance in being the source of a magnificent and long-awaited piece of information.

"Heavens, can you be serious? After all this time?" the informed would surely reply.

"Oh yes, it's as true as you live," the satisfied informant would then explain. This would almost certainly be followed with an "I told you it would happen eventually," or an "I knew all along they were a match."

And so the conversation would continue. As to how the news of Anne and Gilbert's engagement came to be so widespread, it started as many tales in Avonlea do, with one Mrs. Rachel Lynde.

Not thirty minutes after hearing it from Anne and Gilbert themselves, a much excited Rachel had made it her duty to enlighten all of her dear neighbors. She had first told Mrs. Bell, Mr. Mac Phearson, Mrs. Gillis, and Mrs. Harrison. Mrs. Harrison went straight home to tell Mr. Harrison, while Mr. Mac Phearson told Mr. Fletcher, along with Mr. Cotton, who immediately told Mrs. Cotton, who told Mrs. Boulter and Mrs. Shaw. By then, Mrs. Gillis had told Mrs. Sloane and Mrs. Andrews, and Mrs. Andrews then told Mrs. Barry and Mrs. Pye, who told Alice Lawson. Alice Lawson had told Mrs. Wright, and Mrs. Wright told Mrs. Donnell, who told Mrs. Clay. And after that, it would really be quite impossible to discern who told who, although we can probably depend that Mrs. Lynde told everyone else, at least until her legs and lungs failed her. And so came the day that the entire town of Avonlea grew abuzz with the news they had expected to hear years before.

"I knew all along she was courting that Roy fellow just to spite poor Gilbert," Mrs. Lynde said to Mrs. Bell as she leaned against her front porch railing, catching her breath after hustling from house to house. "Providence wouldn't have let it happen any other way. Why, the day she broke that blessed slate over his head, I said to Marilla, 'There's a match for you, and make no mistake!' You'll see now that I was right from the start."

"Well I wish she wouldn't have jilted him the first time… but that's water under the bridge now, I suppose, and I feel sorry I ever turned my nose up at her," said Mrs. Blythe to Mr. Blythe, while laying the table for supper. "She'll make him a wonderful, spirited wife. That keen mind of his will never grow dull with Anne around… I never could keep up with Gilbert's banter, but if there's one soul as can do it, it's Anne." She then proceeded to blow her nose into her handkerchief.

"Bless my soul, Anne finally came around to the fellow, did she?" Mr. Harrison had said to Mrs. Harrison between puffs of smoke, as he leaned back in his rocker with pipe in hand. "My, but she was always a stubborn one, that she was. That Gilbert better keep a firm grip on her, with _two _hands, if he knows what a good thing he's got."

"Do you mean to say that even hot-tempered, obstinate Anne is getting married before our Josie?" exclaimed Mrs. Pye to Mrs. Andrews during afternoon tea, with a shake of her head and roll of her eyes. "Why he waited around for her all this time is beyond me… she's put a spell on him, that's what. I've always said that girl was strange, and now here's the proof!"

"I'll bet they've been engaged for years, and simply kept it quiet till now," Mrs. Sloane said to Mrs. Harrison, while stuffing mail into various boxes in the post office. "I've heard she rejected our Charlie, and I never could see any reason why, except she must have already been engaged to Gilbert. Now I see I was right all along!"

And so the talk continued.

Perhaps the only person oblivious to the buzz of gossip was Anne herself. On this particular afternoon she sat, back against a tree in the orchard of Green Gables, legs stretched outwards and ankles crossed, lost in a book. Her hair was tied in a single braid down her back, and she fiddled unknowingly with the end of it, running her fingers over the neatly woven strands. It was a lazy day for Anne, yet she did not mind; it was a nice departure from the strain of her Redmond studies. Hardly more than a week had passed since she walked the platform to receive her degree, yet it felt far longer. Between final exams, romances both gained and lost, and moving back to Avonlea, Anne mind had hardly found a moment's rest. Because of this, she treasured these first few lazy days to no small degree.

Anne was so enraptured with her book that she did not notice the sound of approaching footsteps. Therefore, she was all-the-more startled when she felt two firm hands upon her shoulders.

"Enjoying Miss Bronte, I see," came Gilbert's voice in her ear. Anne gave a small start before placing her hands on top of Gilbert's and craning her neck up at him.

"Goodness, Gilbert! You seem to have quite a fondness for startling me," Anne said, as she closed the book she was reading. The words 'Jane Eyre,' gleamed up at them from the cover. "And yes, I was. You've actually chosen quite a climatic point to disturb me," she added severely, while unable to hide a smile, for it was quite a welcome disturbance.

Anne shifted slightly to face Gilbert better, and took a moment to take in his appearance. He was looking a bit healthier than he had at the end of term, when he had shown up on her doorstep with a sallow face and rings around his eyes, his clothes hanging loosely from his slumped shoulders. Countless hours of studying had taken their toll on his body, and since Anne now knew—with a twinge of guilt—that _she_ was part of the reason he had nearly killed himself over his schoolwork, she felt it her personal duty to see to his full recovery. His cheeks and skin, although not as vibrant as they once were, had now regained some of their usual color. His eyes still appeared rather tired, but at least the dark rings around them were gone. As for his clothes, they were still quite baggy, but Anne supposed it would take him several weeks to reach his original size and stature. Oblivious to Anne's silent examinations, Gilbert plopped himself down on the grass next to her.

"Well, I'm terribly sorry to interrupt. I simply thought you might like to know that I've just been through town, where I overheard the strangest gossip. Everyone is talking about it," he said with a smug smile. "I don't suppose you'd like to hear it?" Anne abandoned her observations as she placed her book next to her and drew her knees up to her chest.

"Oh yes, and what might that be?" she said, feigning mild interest as she curled a blade of grass around her finger; in truth she was quite intrigued.

"Well," Gilbert said, a grin slowly spreading across his face. "They're only rumors, perhaps you may tell me whether or not they are true… but the word is, you've recently become a very fortunate woman."

Anne raised her eyebrows at him. "How ever so?"

"Well, the way I hear it, you're going to be married. But that isn't the half of it. The fellow is supposed to be second to none… good looking, intelligent, ambitious. Have you any idea who it is?" Gilbert's face was plastered with an impish grin. Anne sighed as she shook her head—no news, just Gilbert being his usual self.

"I haven't the slightest clue. There's no one in this town who fits that description," Anne said archly, as she gathered a pebble between her fingers and tossed it at his head. Gilbert shielded his face with his arm.

"Well," he said, unhindered by Anne's snub, "if _you _have no clue as to who it is, I've no idea why everyone else claims they knew all along…"

"Do they!" Anne exclaimed, her cool countenance breaking.

"Such is the hearsay," Gilbert replied simply. "And anyway," he added, leaning in to Anne and placing his face mere inches from hers, "I have my own ideas about who it is." Anne's heart began to beat quickly at the sheer closeness of him. She wasn't quite used to it yet; she wondered if she would ever grow used to it.

"Oh yes? And who might that be?" she asked, blushing slightly.

"Well, I happen to have also heard that you let Gilbert Blythe kiss you today, in the orchard of Green Gables."

Anne wrinkled her forehead. "But I haven't let you kiss me tod—" Her words were cut short as Gilbert pressed his lips into hers. Anne lost the will to counter his statements as she let his lips do as they pleased. The taste of Gilbert, while still new and exciting as ever, seemed to only grow sweeter with each kiss he chose to bestow.

"You were saying?" Gilbert said, as he pulled away and resumed his former position. Anne closed her eyes for a moment, as she returned from the distant cloud she had been sitting on.

"Fine," she conceded. "I'll confess. It's all true, every bit of it."

"I thought it might be." Gilbert smiled as he tugged Anne's golden-red braid, before laying back on the grass and bringing his arms up, placing his hands under his head. "You might also like to know, that I saw something while I was in town that will be of great interest to you."

"I'm sure you did…" said Anne sarcastically, preparing herself for more of Gilbert's mischief.

"You don't want to hear what I saw?"

"Not particularly."

"Alright then, have it your way. Pity if she hears of it from someone else…"

"Hears of what?" Anne asked, her curiosity piqued. Gilbert was too good at these games of his.

"Of us, being engaged," Gilbert said. His eyes were closed, giving him the appearance of being quite unconcerned with the matter. Anne rolled her eyes.

"Gilbert, you just made it clear that everyone already knows. Who on earth are you talking about?"

"Diana Wright of course," he replied, opening one eye in order to view the surprise that was certain to appear on Anne's face. "I saw her and Fred driving down the Newbridge road today, returning from Charlottetown." He grinned as Anne's eyes bulged and her mouth dropped open.

"Why… Diana! Oh, Gilbert, why ever didn't you say something! She wasn't supposed to return until tomorrow!" Anne exclaimed, giving him a small shove for keeping the news from her these five minutes. "I simply must go to her, immediately, or someone else shall surely tell her first!"

Gilbert chuckled at the degree to which his news had excited Anne. Before he knew it, she had sprung to her feet, hastily brushed off her dress, and begun making her way back to Green Gables. 'Jane Eyre' lay forgotten on the ground. Shaking his head, he bent down to retrieve her abandoned book, then turned and followed after her.

….

Thirty minutes later, a winded Anne Shirley hurried down the lane to the Wright homestead. The day was not altogether hot, yet beads of sweat glistened on her forehead by the time she had completed her two-mile journey. She wiped several loose strands of hair from her face as she discerned Diana, sitting in a wicker chair on the front porch with a tiny bundle in her lap.

"Anne!" Diana called, as she saw her approaching the porch steps.

"My dearest Diana, how wonderful to see you!" Anne cried, taking the steps two at a time and leaning down to embrace her friend. Anne thought it very refreshing to see Diana after many months apart, and delighted in the glow of happiness which read in her every feature.

"I'm ever so sorry we missed your return from Redmond," said Diana. "My Aunt Josephine—" Yet Anne was not thinking of Redmond just now; nor was she thinking of Aunt Josephine. Her attention had been captured by the plump, precious angel looking up at her from the blue folds under Diana's elbow.

"Never you mind your Aunt Josephine at a time like this! But my goodness, Diana, little Fred is simply delightful!" Anne looked down into Fred's sweet, dimply face. She could not help but notice how much he looked like his father. Yet somehow, despite being fat, freckled and scarlet, he was none-the-less wonderful than if he had been the handsomest baby alive. Anne offered him her little finger, and his tiny fist closed tightly around it. Diana was practically gleaming with pride. Anne decided that motherhood looked very good on Diana. Nevertheless, she could hardly believe her bosom friend of long ago was a mother in the first place!

The next quarter of an hour was spent admiring little Fred. Diana gushed and glowed, while Anne gawked and admired.

"Motherhood is the sweetest thing, Anne. I am confident you will love it, some day when you are a mother yourself."

"I am sure I will, Diana," said Anne with a laugh, while she wiggled the baby's tiny toes. "I have dreamt of being a mother for my entire life."

"And you will be such a wonderful one! You have such a way with children," Diana sighed, in a tone of admiration bordering on jealousy.

"Well if motherhood has made my bosom friend so supremely happy, then I am looking forward to it all the more!" Anne said with a smile. "As long as I don't have twins," she added. "I've had enough of twins to last a lifetime! Yet I've always said that twins seem to be my lot in life." Diana laughed in agreement. Between the various sets of Hammond twins, and Dora and Davy, Anne certainly was experienced on that subject.

All this talk of children led Anne's thoughts, naturally, to Gilbert. What would their children look like? Hopefully they would inherit his dark brown hair—Anne had always hated her own—yet she would be glad if they had her nose. And oh, what joy she would derive from seeing Gilbert's hazel eyes staring up at her, out of the face of a wee babe upon her lap! Anne found herself lost in thought, until thinking of Gilbert caused her to suddenly remember the reason for her visit.

"Oh, goodness me!" Anne said aloud, wondering how on earth it could have slipped her mind, so enraptured had she been with seeing Diana once again. "I've only just remembered… I came here to tell you the news."

"News?" Diana asked, looking at Anne through raised eyebrows.

"Yes," Anne stated, clearing her throat. "I wanted to be the first to tell you…"

Diana gazed at Anne expectantly; in her eyes, there was only one type of news which merited such an introduction. She had expected the summer to bring word of Anne's engagement; after all, she and Anne had talked of it often that past Christmas. Now Diana merely waited for her suspicions to be confirmed.

"I'm engaged," Anne declared, throwing up her hands as she said so and pausing to see Diana's reaction. Diana's eyes widened slightly, and she smiled as she clapped her hands together.

"So Roy proposed, then! Oh, Anne, I was desperately hoping he would. To be honest, I wasn't quite sure if you would see it through; Fred said you wouldn't, but of course I defended you, although it was hard to see how you really felt about him. But of course you were only being modest—"

"Diana, wait!" Anne cried, overwhelmed by her friend's sudden outburst. She also couldn't help but notice that Diana's excitement, while genuine, seemed forced in its degree. Diana grew silent in response to Anne's request.

"Hmm?" she inquired, wearing a rather confused look.

"Perhaps I should clarify. I am engaged… but not to Roy," Anne said slowly. She might have mentioned Gilbert's name then and there, but she couldn't resist the opportunity to hold her friend in suspense. Diana's mouth fell open. If she hadn't been shocked by Anne's initial declaration, she most certainly was shocked now.

"Wha… what? _Not_ to Roy?"

"No, not to Roy."

"Well then… then… but you were courting… you said…" Diana stammered. She stared at Anne through wide eyes, flabbergasted. Anne couldn't help but smile at Diana's puzzlement.

"Whoever _are_ you engaged to, Anne?" Diana demanded. Anne's smile widened and she let out a small, uncontrollable giggle. Diana realized that Anne was holding this vital piece of information from her on purpose. "For heaven's sake, Anne Shirley, tell me!"

"Well then…" Anne replied, deciding she had kept her poor friend on edge for long enough, "to Gilbert Blythe, if you must know."

Diana let out an ear-piercing shriek, nearly dropping baby Fred on the floor. She then clapped her hands over her mouth, eyes growing even wider than before.

"To… to _Gilbert Blythe!_ Why, Anne, you sly minx! But you swore up and down you didn't care a thing for him! Are you in earnest?" Diana's face was puzzled; it all seemed too wonderful and strange to be true.

"I am, dearest Diana," Anne said, taking one of Diana's trembling hands into her own. "And take no more explanation beyond the fact that I was a stubborn, blind, unbearable goose, and have since seen the error of my ways." As Anne said this, she began to laugh. Diana couldn't help but notice the genuine glee that was written in every feature of Anne's face; it put a rosy tint in her cheeks and a glowing fire in her eyes that made her look remarkably beautiful. So it was true! The realization that Anne really was engaged to Gilbert caused Diana to shriek aloud once again.

"Oh, Anne! I am so happy for you, I could burst!" she said, before pulling Anne close to her and giving her a wet kiss on the cheek. Diana was completely giddy with excitement for her dear friend. Anne couldn't help but notice how different Diana's reaction was, upon hearing that Anne was engaged to Gilbert, and not Roy. Then again, Diana liked Gilbert much better than Roy. Furthermore, she had never been able to understand Anne's constant snubs to Gilbert throughout their long history.

Diana's exclamations of glee were interrupted by the front door flying open. A red-faced, distressed Fred Wright burst through it.

"Diana, are you alright? I heard screaming," he said, looking wildly from Anne to Diana. The two girls burst into fits of laughter. Half a minute passed before Diana was able to gather her wits about her.

"Nothing to worry, Fred dear, although Anne did just startle me half to death! Perhaps she will startle _you_ half to death as well, when you hear her news." Diana turned to Anne and winked, then turned back to her husband.

"What's that?" asked Fred, scratching his head in confusion.

"Why, Anne here is engaged to Gilbert Blythe. What say you to that, darling?" Fred's jaw dropped, much the same as Diana's had done only five minutes before.

"Well, is that so?" Fred said, looking at Anne and letting out a low whistle. "Why, I never… I thought he gave that up when you jilted him the first time."

"Fred!" Diana exclaimed, shooting him a disapproving look.

"No offense meant, of course," Fred added apologetically while glancing once again at Anne.

"It's alright, Diana," Anne said, patting her on the arm. "Truly, it is. I've been a downright fool when it comes to Gilbert, and I might as well get used to people saying so." She flashed a smile at Fred, who gave a small shrug, as if he could not help but agree.

"Well then," Fred said awkwardly, clearing his throat. "If you ladies are alright, I think I'll just head back inside. Congratulations, Anne." With that he shuffled back through the door. Fred had never possessed a knack for entertaining Diana's house guests.

Once he had gone, Diana spoke again. "Tell me how it happened, Anne," she pleaded, while stroking little Fred's wispy curls with her fingertips. And so Anne told Diana the entire story from start to finish; Diana was a most willing and animated listener. She gasped in surprise as Anne told her of Gilbert's kiss, and anguish showed on her face during the awkward tale of Convocation. She buried her face in her hands when Anne spoke of Roy's proposal, she sighed when Anne recounted the Convocation dance, and she clenched the arms of her chair during the story of Roy and Gilbert's confrontation. When Anne finally arrived at Gilbert's proposal, Diana was an emotional mess. She claimed it was the sweetest proposal she had ever heard of, and promptly wiped her eyes on baby Fred's blanket.

"Oh Anne, you poor dear," Diana said, when Anne's tale was finally told out. "That is quite a story! It's a wonder you didn't fall ill from the stress of it all! And it must have been quite overwhelming to finally realize your love for Gilbert."

"Oh, but it was!" Anne replied, reflecting for a moment. "It felt rather like plunging into a pool of cold water. Every sense was magnified, and it was uncomfortable, and almost painful in its intensity. But after a short while, I embraced it, and grew relaxed and happy and _free._ And everything just felt… _right_." She let out a sigh, while gazing up at the sky. Diana took much pleasure from seeing the dreamy look on Anne's face.

"I love him so completely, Diana," Anne continued, holding her gaze towards the heavens. "Looking back, I can't even remember a day when I _didn't_ love him."

Diana smiled and placed her hand on Anne's knee. "I think you've loved him from the very start," she said earnestly. "If I could only count the times I asked you if you cared for him! Yet you would always become so upset every time I raised the subject—that's how I knew you loved him. If you didn't, you wouldn't have cared half so much at my thinking you did." Anne saw the truth in Diana's statement and nodded in agreement. Looking back, Anne realized that Diana, too, had known all along of her feelings for Gilbert. It had all been so clear—to everyone but herself!

Both women sat silently for a moment, each reminiscing over intimate conversations of old. It was Diana who broke the silence first. "Do you remember the wild, dashing, wicked men we once dreamed of marrying?"

Anne gave a chuckle at the thought. She was all too familiar with the melancholy man which had inhabited the dreams of their youth. She had courted the very likes of him, after all, and found him to be not so very dreamy in the end.

"Oh yes, how could I forget!" she exclaimed. "When I first learned of your engagement to Fred, I was so disappointed in you for abandoning your tall, dark, mysterious hero of yore."

"Ah yes, Fred isn't quite any of those things, is he?" Diana said with a laugh. "I told you that one day you would understand, when your turn came," she added, with a shake of her head.

"What a stubborn goose I was!" cried Anne, as she buried her face into Diana's shoulder. "I clung to that ideal until it nearly drowned me! In the end, you spoke the truth, and I am forced to eat my words, without a spare bit of sugar to make them go down smoothly! Yet it pains me not to admit to you, dearest Diana, that I could never imagine myself marrying anyone but my dear curly-haired, sarcastic, mischievous Gilbert."

"Oh, to hear you say that at last!" Diana exclaimed. The two then proceeded to discuss all matters of love and life, with every air of their girlish camaraderie of olden days.

Anne's conversation with Diana left her heart feeling very full, for there is nothing quite like sharing life's greatest joys with a bosom friend. As Anne skipped back down the lane an hour later, she couldn't help but feel content. Her last weekend at Redmond had been the most stressful, emotional, and exciting one of her entire life, yet the dust had finally settled. She was finally around this rather sharp bend in the road, and waiting for her on the other side had been Gilbert, with both arms and heart open wide. She knew not where it would take her now, and neither did she care. As long as she had Gilbert to walk it with her, she would face it with a smile on her lips and a song in her heart.

* * *

**AN: And off we go! Thank you for following me over here, you are all so wonderful. I hope to make your time worthwhile!  
**


	2. Weddings, Cake, and Wedding Cake

**Chapter 2: Weddings, Cake, and Wedding Cake**

**T  
**

Gilbert Blythe sat comfortably in his worn leather seat, feeling its soft vibrations as the train clattered along the tracks. He leaned his head on the top of the seat-back, enjoying the sensation. Gilbert had always loved trains—the dull murmur of the engine, the rhythmic clicking of the wheels over the wooden rails, the feeling of his very seat pulling him forward in space. He found the entire experience ideal for relaxing and meditating.

On this particular journey, Gilbert was even more comfortable than usual, owing to the vibrant auburn-haired head that was resting on his shoulder. It was the first time anyone had ever slept on his shoulder, and the fact that the sleeper should be Anne caused Gilbert to wonder at his luck. That she should sleep on _his_ shoulder—and no other's—gave him a distinct sense of pride. _"Look at me!"_ he felt like shouting to the other passengers on the train, _"Look at this beautiful girl who I get to call mine!"_ Indeed, Gilbert could think of no greater honor than being the man whom Anne Shirley willfully chose to lay her head upon.

He peered sideways to look into her face. Her long golden lashes rested daintily on the tops of her cheeks—a projection of innocent beauty. He counted the seven freckles perched on her nose—freckles she hated yet he adored. He could make out the faint trace of a smile on her lips as she slept, and hoped he might be partially responsible for that smile. Gilbert realized in that moment that he was smiling himself, and in his mind, there was no doubt that she was the cause of it.

The past few weeks had been the sweetest and fullest of his life, despite their simplicity. Nearly every moment that was not spent helping his father on the farm was employed in visiting Anne, and wandering with her about Avonlea. Gilbert remembered each visit perfectly, as a moving picture ingrained in his mind. And it was not only the sight of Anne he remembered, but the feel of her skin, and the smell of her hair; the sound of her laughter and the taste of her lips. He had spent many long years waiting and hoping for Anne, and now that she was his, it was as if his senses were on overload. He closed his eyes as he recalled the sweet memories.

Long walks to Hester Gray's garden, strolls over the grassy dunes of the island shore, thrilling rides on Gilbert's horse, misty mornings o'er the Lake of Shining Waters, and moonlit trysts in the birch grove bordering Green Gables… yes, the last two weeks had been positively perfect. Yet Gilbert saved his favorite memory for last, and was on the point of recalling it when Anne stirred slightly. Gilbert lifted his arm and put it around her, as she nestled into his side. He smiled and stroked her hair, once again reveling in the sheer sight and feel of her, before replaying a scene from earlier that week in his mind.

Two days before, Gilbert had knocked on the kitchen door of Green Gables, only to find Anne alone, and preparing to bake a cake for the upcoming church social. He had intended to sit quietly at the kitchen table while she worked, but Anne had immediately employed his services, passing him a bag of flour and a cup, and asking him to please measure four cupfuls into a bowl.

"I'm sorry Anne, but I'm afraid I cannot help you," Gilbert had said.

"Why ever not, Gilbert?" Anne had replied, grudgingly. "I hope you do not believe you are above baking fruit cake?"

"Oh no, if there's one aspect of manhood which I lament, it's that we are not appointed the office of baking cakes," Gilbert had stated, in a tone which was so serious, Anne had let out an undignified snort of laughter. "The problem is, Miss Shirley, that I do not have an apron." Anne had laughed so hard at this statement that she fell to her knees, clutching her side. Gilbert merely stood before her, hand outstretched, ready to receive the requested item of clothing.

And so a flowery apron had been produced, and Gilbert wore it with as much pride as he had worn a similar apron during his Lambs initiation at Redmond. He measured the flour with the utmost precision, sliced the apples with inordinate gusto, and when it came time to stir the batter, he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, plunged the spoon into the mixture, and sang at the top of his lungs:

"Patty cake, patty cake, baker's man,

Bake me a cake as fast as you can,

Roll it up, roll it up, and throw it in a pan!

Patty cake, patty cake, baker's man!"*

As he uttered "baker's man" for the final time, Gilbert had brandished the spoon high in the air, sending bits of batter flying. Anne was as good as useless after this display. She had giggled and laughed until her face turned blue and tears streamed from her eyes. Oh, that there would ever be another man for her than her nursery-rhyme-singing, flowery-apron-wearing Gilbert!

Gilbert had watched Anne laugh herself out of breath with a full heart; if he could only make her laugh at least once each day, for the rest of her life, he would be a happy man. It was then that he had been possessed with quite the mischievous idea. Glancing at the open bag of flour, and then back at Anne, he reached his hand inside and pulled out a handful of its powdery contents. As Anne recovered from her episode and turned to face him, he had dropped a small white pile on the top of her head.

She had then let out a small shriek, followed by a "Gilbert Blythe, how dare you!" Gilbert had merely stood there, smirking. He shrugged and turned both of his palms upwards as if to say, _'What are you going to do about it?' _In response, Anne had skirted around Gilbert, dipped her own hand into the bag, and held it menacingly in front of him with a set face. She raised her arm, preparing to set its contents free. She hadn't meant to throw the flour at his head, but just as she opened her fingertips, Gilbert's own hand had fastened across her wrist, ruining her aim. And so Gilbert found himself with a flour-smeared face. He had paused for a moment, little white flakes falling from his dark lashes as he blinked the mess from his eyes.

"Oh, Anne Shirley, you have no idea what you've just gotten yourself into." He leaped for the bag; Anne pulled it away, and the battle that ensued would have given Marilla a heart-attack had she seen it—for her pristine floors and counter-tops could certainly not be called spotless in that moment. When the last flurry of white dust had settled, Anne and Gilbert found themselves sprawled on the floor, doused in flour and sugar both. Their entire store of artillery spent, they had then declared a truce, and a laughing Anne had gone to procure some towels, so they might at least wipe their faces clean.

"Oh, if Marilla could only see her kitchen now!" Anne had cried as she resumed her seat next to him and wiped behind her ears.

"I suppose it's lucky for you she is taking tea with the Ladies Aid," Gilbert had replied, before adding: "Say, Anne, you've missed a spot."

"I have?" Anne asked, blushing. "Where is it?"

"Just next to your ear… no not that one, the left one… now down a little…" Gilbert had only grinned as an exasperated Anne tried to dab at the remaining flour which clung stubbornly to the side of her face.

"Have I got it now?"

"I'm afraid not. Here, let me help you," Gilbert said, scooting closer to Anne. She held out her towel, expecting him to take it. Gilbert, however, had no intention of taking Anne's towel. He brought his lips to the spot in question and kissed it, sucking ever-so-lightly on the skin to remove any powder there. Anne let out a small "oh," and seemed to quiver at his touch.

"Mmm, tastes like cake," Gilbert had said, as he brought his hand to the side of Anne's face, stroking it. "Let's see, now that I look more closely, there are a few more spots you missed." Anne was left speechless, as Gilbert moved his lips upward to her forehead, and began to circle her face with tiny kisses, gradually making his way inward to her cheeks and nose, something he had dreamed of doing for a very long time. In the end, he had finally found her lips. The kiss he had given her then was tender and sweet, neither brief nor drawn-out.

As he pulled away, she had grabbed his shirt with both fists, bringing his face back to hers. She was kissing him deeply—greedily—and Gilbert was consumed with a level of longing he had never known before. Why was it that the more he got of Anne, the more he _wanted_ of her? He had lost himself for a moment, kissing her passionately and moving his hands up and down her back. He had wanted nothing more than to lay her down, right there on the white, flour-dusted floor, and kiss every part of her he could see, and then some. He brought his hand up to her shoulder, prepared to push her gently down and onto her back, when by some grace of God he had regained a sense of control.

He _couldn't _give into this longing; that would be carrying things too far. At that moment, Gilbert had realized how difficult the next three years would be. The boundary between right and wrong was not so solid as he once thought; he could breach it—would want to breach it—every day. He had to be careful for both their sakes. And so he had given Anne one last sweet kiss, and suggested they clean up the mess in case Marilla returned home early.

"Next stop, Bolingbroke!" a deep voice sounded down the train, bringing him back to reality. Gilbert cursed the conductor inwardly. How could they be nearing their destination already? He wished it were still a hundred miles away, so he might cradle his sleeping Anne for a couple more hours. The conductor's booming announcement had caused her to stir from her sleep. Anne woke up, stretched her thin, pearly arms delicately, and opened her eyes.

"My… goodness," she said through a yawn, "are we… there already?"

"It shouldn't be more than a few more minutes," Gilbert replied regretfully. "You mentioned Phil was coming to pick us up?"

"Oh, goodness no. With her being married tomorrow? She will be far too busy," Anne replied, her tone of voice indicating that this simple fact should have been obvious. Gilbert shrugged. What did he know of women and their wedding preparations? "In her letter she said Jonas would escort us," Anne continued.

Jonas did escort them, and fifteen minutes later they were seated in his buggy as it rattled through town. Gilbert had been quite pleased when Anne had suggested he accompany her to Phil's wedding. Anne herself had been born in Bolingbroke, and so he was very interested in seeing the place. He looked around at the cobbled streets and prim storefronts. A strange chill went down his spine as he imagined a scenario where Anne's parents _hadn't_ died of fever, and in which a small girl with two flaming red braids danced and sang through the scene around him. Yet the fever had stolen that life from her. The fever was relentless; he knew that, and Anne knew it better. Yet the fever had brought her to Avonlea, and so he could not wholly lament Anne's age-old loss.

Half an hour later, Jonas' buggy made its slow way down the lane to Mount Holly, the home of Phil's parents. Even Gilbert couldn't help but notice how gorgeous the house was—painted a rich taupe color with white trim, with a wrap-around verandah, and various gables and bay windows. The very house seemed to gleam with anticipation of the morrow's festivities. Anne was flushed with excitement at the prospect of seeing Phil, and her face lit up when her friend appeared in the doorway.

Anne hardly waited for the buggy to stop as she lept from her seat—ignoring Gilbert's offer of assistance—and ran to meet her.

"Phil!" she called out, as she reached the porch steps. The two girls greeted each other with such zest that one would assume they had not seen each other in several years, rather than a few weeks. They embraced each other tightly; afterwards Anne held Philippa out at arm's length.

"Oh, but Phil, you look every bit as lovely as you did when we left Redmond," Anne sighed. "You'll be the most breathtaking bride Nova Scotia has seen in many a year!"

"Do you really think it's possible?" said Phil, her large eyes probing Anne to praise her once again; she had never quite overcome her fondness of compliments.

"Of course I do! And how could it not be—you're practically glowing with joy," Anne exclaimed. Phil really was beaming with happiness; Gilbert himself could see that.

"Well, I suppose I am. How could I not be, when I'm about to marry such a man as Jo?" Phil said, batting her eyes in Jonas' direction. Then she added with a wink, "I might also add... that I am not the only one who is glowing." With that she tapped the tip of Anne's nose with a finger.

"Phil!" Anne exclaimed, clasping her cheeks with her hands as she began to blush. Gilbert laughed under his breath, for Phil had not attempted to keep her voice quiet. Phil turned to greet Gilbert as he approached them.

"Gilbert, how lovely to see you," she said, pulling him into a hug. "My, you are looking better than when I saw you last, but it's really no surprise as to why," she flashed a grin at Anne as she said this. "Although you still do look a bit tired…"

"It was a long trip," Gilbert explained, although Phil was right—he was tired. He was always a bit tired, even though term was well over, yet he tried not to let it show. He still helped his father willingly on the farm, for he couldn't bear to let his old man down. And his desire to see Anne in his free hours overtook his longing for rest. He would just have to grow used to feeling tired, he supposed.

"Well I'm so glad you've come," Phil said. She placed a finger on her lips and surveyed Anne and Gilbert thoughtfully. "Yes, everything is as it should be. You two are simply charming together. I'm certain Roy would have never done for you, Anne," Phil then turned to Gilbert and said, in a quite audible whisper, "I was rooting for you all the while, Gil."

Anne narrowed her eyebrows and shot Phil a pointed glare, while Gilbert stifled a laugh. He had grown to find Phil quite amusing. Her willful impertinence appealed well to his sense of humor.

"Oh Anne, you take things too seriously," Phil sighed. "I'll bet Gilbert can tell you that." She then turned and led them into the house.

…

Mount Holly was a lively place that evening. People came and went, delivering platters and decorations, while more guests arrived from out of town and crowded into the various rooms. The women worked feverishly in the kitchen, with Philippa's mother at the helm. Mrs. Gordon was a tall, thin woman, with honey-brown eyes and curly dark-brown hair arranged in a tight bun on her head. Her expression would have appeared quite severe were it not for the crooked mouth—a feature she shared with her daughter.

Mrs. Gordon had initially disapproved of Phil's choice in a husband—Anne had explained this to Gilbert during the train-ride—but Gilbert supposed she had finally overcome her dislike, or at least come into a quiet acceptance of it. By the way she took command of the wedding preparations and troubled over the tiniest details, it was clear that every measure would be taken to assure her daughter had a beautiful wedding day.

And so the women worked the afternoon away, baking the wedding cake—"Try not to get it all over yourself this time," Gilbert had whispered—arranging flowers, preparing food, and doing Gilbert-knew-not-what. In the meantime, Gilbert helped Mr. Gordon set up a tent in the garden, which was to hold the wedding breakfast. Mr. Gordon was quite unlike his wife—short, mustached, and with a generous waistline. It was clear that the women shouldered the bulk of the conversation in the Gordon household, for Mr. Gordon was a man of few words; he and Gilbert talked little as they assembled and arranged the tables and chairs. Gilbert spent the rest of the day trying simply to keep out of the way. Every now and then, Anne or Phil would shout him an order, which he would carry out obediently before resuming his perch on the living room sofa. Why so much effort went into a wedding was beyond him—but he supposed this was due to his simple-minded masculine ways.

As evening finally fell around Mount Holly, the hustle and bustle of the day began to die away, and Gilbert and Anne found themselves sitting on the verandah around the back of the house. It was dark outside, yet light streamed through the windows and fell in neat squares upon the garden. A soft babble of voices could be heard from inside, and someone was playing the piano in the parlor. Anne leaned her head against the porch railing, tired from travel and preparation.

"Oh, to know what Phil must be feeling right now, on the eve of her day-of-days!" Anne sighed as she turned her gaze upwards; faint stars had begun to sprinkle themselves about the sky. "You know, Gilbert, there are few things that make me feel happier than weddings. They are just the perfect example of joy, and surrender, and commitment towards another person. Sometimes I feel I will cry from the sheer thought of what weddings represent. And Phil marrying Jonas; they are really such an odd-looking pair, and that's _beautiful,_ Gil. Love heeds no mind to superficialities; it looks into the soul_._"

Gilbert smiled at Anne's words; he adored her quiet musings—it was one of the things that had made him fall in love with her, all those years ago. She wasn't nearly as poetic now as she had been in days of old, and Gilbert loved to hear her slip back into her old meditations. He reached over and took her hand in his, playing with her fingers and the soft skin on top of her hand.

"I've thought often of another wedding today, Anne," Gilbert said softly. Anne turned her gaze earthwards and her eyes locked with Gilbert's; each held a loving stare reserved solely for the other.

"And what sort of things were you thinking of, my love?"

Gilbert's heartbeat quickened at those last two words—she had never called him "_my love"_ before. He decided he liked it.

"Well, I imagined a beautiful girl, with gray-green eyes and long auburn hair, flowing behind her as she walks down the aisle in a white dress." Anne smiled as her eyes traveled slightly upwards, indicating that she was creating the scene in her own mind as well. Gilbert thought for a moment and continued. "I imagined lifting her veil, and kissing her tenderly, and later dancing with her among a circle of friends, and cutting a creamy white wedding cake, and enduring long-winded toasts from our gushing admirers, and little boys throwing old shoes behind us as we depart."

"Mmm," said Anne, dreamily. "I can see the Green Gables orchard, decorated in white ribbon and lilies, and a handsome man waiting for me at the end of the aisle, in a neat suit and tie, with his hair combed back—but only because I ordered him to. And I can see Marilla making a fuss over the serving of breakfast, and his mother crying into his father's shoulder as we say our goodbyes." Gilbert grinned and nodded his head as he continued to play with those long, slender fingers he loved.

"Three years," Anne sighed, a hint of longing in her voice. "It seems so far away."

"Yes, three years," Gilbert repeated. "I'm sorry to make you wait so long, Anne." They sat in silence for a moment, each thinking of the long road ahead, before they would finally be man and wife. For Gilbert, it seemed to stretch out before him like an eternity. Three years of only seeing Anne over summers and Christmases. And on top of that was the realization Gilbert had made only days before—that he would be constantly battling his desire to _be with her_, intimately, as only a husband can be with his wife. Anne's soft voice penetrated his thoughts.

"When I imagine seeing Phil at the altar, beside herself with joy, I can't help but think about how beautiful it is… that tomorrow she and Jonas will _belong _to each other. Throughout the rest of their lives, they will see more of each other than anyone else, forever. And I am ashamed of my envy." Anne dropped her gaze to the floor. Gilbert said nothing, but gave her a soft squeeze of the hand. "If only we could be married now, Gil," she sighed, still looking downwards.

"If only…" Gilbert said, assuming this was a rhetorical statement. Her words echoed his own desire, yet to be married before he finished medical school would be impossible. Anne remained quiet for a moment, and when she looked up at Gilbert again, a strange fire was burning in her eyes. She was looking at him intensely—Gilbert knew she had just been overwhelmed with some new thought.

"What if we did get married, Gil? I could come with you to Redmond; we could be together every day." The tone in her voice was so resolute that there was no mistaking her sincerity.

"Oh Anne, you know I couldn't support you. We would be scraping just to get by—"

"But I could work. I could find a job teaching; I could make just enough…" Anne's voice trailed off. Gilbert's heart broke to see how determined she was—to see the hope within her that would be extinguished as quickly as it had come, for he knew he couldn't give her what she desired. He brought Anne's hand to his lips and kissed it. Then he pressed it to the side of his face, looking right into those brilliant gray eyes.

"I can't let you do that, Anne. I couldn't bear it... Please don't ask it of me," he pleaded, this last sentence barely more than a whisper. Gilbert was not without his pride; he could never let Anne be the sole bread-winner, and even a teacher's earnings would not be much to support them. He couldn't bear the thought of Anne living in want because of him. Gilbert swallowed before continuing. "I want to marry you, Anne, more than anything in the world. But I want to do it properly… I want to take care of you, Anne-girl."

"Why can't I take care of you, Gil? Just at first." Anne's voice began to crack.

"Think about it, Anne. Even if you did teach, what would happen if you…" Gilbert paused here, thinking over the implication of his next words, before continuing. "If you became pregnant?" he finished. "Then what would we do? You couldn't work then."

"But there are ways to prevent it, I've heard about them—" Anne persisted, throwing out this last futile defense.

"Three years is an awful long time to push our luck, Anne," Gilbert replied quietly. Anne's face fell as she realized he was right. She continued to stare at Gilbert as a single tear slid down her cheek. It hurt Gilbert greatly to see her disappointment. He wished there was some way—any way—to grant her wish. But there was not. They must wait; Gilbert knew it, and now Anne knew it.

"I love you, Anne," Gilbert said, kissing the hair on the top of her head. "I'll count down the days, every single one."

"I'll be counting down the hours."

Gilbert and Anne remained on the porch for some time, until Anne's eyelids began to flutter, and she fell asleep once again on Gilbert's shoulder. He should have sent her up to bed right then and there, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Back on the train, he had longed for just one more hour of this—of Anne's perfect head resting upon him for a pillow. And if he couldn't get it then, he would get it now.

* * *

**AN: Goodness, I love writing Gilbert chapters so much. If only every chapter could be from his perspective! I hadn't planned to stretch Phil's wedding into two chapters, but that darn cake scene just forced itself in there and took up some serious space. So it's two chapters you will get!**

**-I always wondered why Anne and Gil didn't just get married and content themselves with being poor during his med school years. I wanted to explore that, and now that I have, it makes perfect sense why they waited. Especially on account of the babies—they weren't so preventable back then, and we all know Anne and Gil won't be able to keep their hands off of each other once that day comes ;)  
**

**Thanks as usual for the reviews on the last chapter! I am so happy to see some familiar faces here!  
**

_*Taken from the old English Nursery Rhyme: "Pat-a-Cake," Thomas D'Urfey, 1698_


	3. Give and Take

**Chapter 3: Give and Take**

**T**

Phil's wedding day dawned the way any wedding day ought to dawn—clear, calm and bright. The clouds that speckled the sky to the east made for a sweet little sunrise, robed in pastels of orange and pink. A soft morning breeze lightly rustled the leaves of the trees; they seemed to be awakening along with the birds and critters. Anne watched this calm, peaceful picture unfold before her from Phil's bedroom on the southern side of Mount Holly. She leaned against the window pane and hummed softly as she brushed through her long golden-red hair.

Phil's rather unladylike snores could still be heard from the bed. Her room, although not large, was moderately sized, and had served as lodging for her and Anne, along with a cousin from Halifax, who had already arisen, although her untidy mass of blankets could be seen upon the floor. Anne had slept the entire night with the odd yet thrilling knowledge that Gilbert lay in the spare room down the hall, not ten meters from her own room. The mere thought of Gilbert asleep so near made it difficult for Anne to sleep. More than once she had contemplated sneaking into the hall and pressing her ear against his door, only to hear his soft, rhythmic breathing from within. She had resisted this impulse in reality, but not in her dreams.

Gilbert had shared a spare room with Phil's younger brother Adam, and two other Halifax cousins. Anne was amazed at how skillfully Mrs. Gordon had found beds for the various friends and relatives that had arrived the day before. The spare rooms of Mount Holly each housed three to four occupants, while the children were permitted to sleep in the living room. Some of the guests had been sent to Heather Glade, the home of Phil's grandmother, who lived not two miles away. Among these had been Jonas, for Mrs. Gordon would have made the poor boy sleep in the garden before she would have allowed Philippa to spend the eve of her wedding under the same roof as her betrothed.

Anne was gazing blankly out of the window and using the brush to work through a rather stubborn knot in her hair when someone rapped sharply on the door.

"Philippa!" came Mrs. Gordon's urgent voice from the other side. Phil stirred slightly, before rolling over onto her other side.

"Mmm," she said sleepily.

"Philippa Gordon! The sun is well up and it's high-time you were as well. There are a great many things to do that simply won't do themselves!"

Phil opened her eyes lazily and rose herself up onto an elbow, before plopping herself back down again. Anne watched her, amused. Leave it to Phil to laze about in bed on the morning of her wedding! Then again, the sun rises earliest in June, and the day was still very young. Phil's eyelids fluttered again, yet she remained silent. Knowing Phil's mother would surely be upset by Phil's continued lack of a reply, Anne found herself answering Mrs. Gordon's calls.

"Thank you, Mrs. Gordon. She'll be out in just a minute. I'll see to it myself."

"Oh, that child, abed at six o'clock, on today of all days! You'd think it was just some plain old, ordinary…" but Anne never heard the rest of Mrs. Gordon's sentence; her voice faded into silence as she strode back down the hall. Anne laughed quietly to herself, for never in her memory had Phil arisen before six o'clock.

Anne then set her hairbrush on the windowsill, vowing to tackle the tangled mass of hair in a few minutes, and went to Phil's bedside. Phil lay face down on the bed; her hair was full of curlers, and the lump on her pillow looked more like a giant, chocolate-colored bow than a human head. Anne sat down next to her.

"Good morning, sunshine, time to get up," she said, as she gave Phil's shoulder a friendly pat. Phil merely grunted and swatted Anne's hand weakly away.

"Well, fine then," Anne said. "If you don't want to become Mrs. Jonas Blake today, I'll simply go to your mother and tell her—"

Phil stirred once again, and then suddenly her eyes shot open. She grabbed Anne's arm with such a force it almost hurt.

"I'm getting married today!" Phil exclaimed, all traces of weariness vanishing from her face in an instant. The sleepy girl of five seconds before was gone and forgotten. Anne laughed at this sudden change.

"Yes, I daresay you are."

"Oh my," Phil said with a chuckle, "but it really is a rather silly thought isn't it? Me, married!" Phil's words were apprehensive, but she looked positively joyful. Anne grinned fondly at her friend. If a tinge of jealousy was felt deep down in her heart, she pushed it immediately away. Today was Phil's day.

Anne went to the window and took her hairbrush again, attempting halfheartedly to battle the obstinate knot. Her hands worked the brush, but her eyes were on Phil. She gave a small sigh as she thought of the day before them.

"What does it feel like, Phil? To know you'll be marrying Jonas today?" Anne asked. Her own wedding day was still a few years away, yet it was prominent in her thoughts, and she was intrigued to imagine what it would feel like for the wait to finally be over.

Phil sat back against the iron headboard and thought for a moment.

"Well, it feels rather strange, yet a good strange; the best feeling in the world. Oh, I'm sure if I were marrying anyone else, I'd be terrified. But Jonas isn't just anyone, and that makes it simply exciting." Phil's words seemed perfectly sensible to Anne. Indeed, when she used to imagine marrying Roy, it had always been tainted with a hint of fear of the unknown, and an edge of doubt of her own happiness. Yet with Gilbert it was not so—with Gilbert there was no uncertainty, only anticipation.

Upon thinking of Gilbert, Anne's thoughts traveled to another question, of what was to come _after_ the wedding. She had always been told that brides lived for the wedding, while grooms lived for the wedding night. Older women seemed to always speak of the wedding night as something to be _dealt_ _with_ and _endured. _She knew little of _that _aspect of romantic relationships, and wondered if it could really be so.

"Are you nervous, Phil?" she asked, a bit embarrassed. "For the… well…"

"For the wedding night?" asked Phil bluntly, now sitting on the edge of her bed while she donned a stocking. Anne was surprised at Phil's frankness. Then again, she should have expected Phil to be frank—that was her way, after all.

"Well… yes," Anne replied shyly. She felt rather foolish to bring up such an intimate topic. But Phil was her closest friend, apart from Diana. If she couldn't talk about these things with Phil, who _could_ she talk about them with?

"No-o-o," Phil said. "All my life I thought I would be nervous, but I'm not. To tell the absolute truth, I'm actually _relieved._"

"Relieved?" exclaimed Anne. This was not the answer she had expected out of Phil. Weren't all women taught to fear their wedding nights?

"Yes, relieved. Just think, Jonas and I will be _free, _with no boundaries," Phil said dreamily. Anne took a moment to think over Phil's reply.

"I suppose I never thought of it that way," she said. She looked blankly at Phil, who took it upon herself to elaborate.

"Jonas and I have been engaged for an entire year, Anne. And well, you know that as time goes by, it gets harder and harder to… OH!" Phil's eyes suddenly grew wide. "But you probably don't know!" She giggled, as her face adopted the same pretentious look she always wore when she had the pleasure of knowing something Anne didn't. She patted the spot next to her on the bed, beckoning Anne to join her. Anne felt slightly childish over the whole situation, but curiosity overwhelmed her, and she consented.

"How silly of me… you and Gilbert haven't been engaged long. Pardon me for feeling otherwise; to me it seems as if you have been a couple forever." Phil crossed one leg over the other and folded her hands over one knee, preparing to provide her friend with a short briefing. "Well then, allow me to enlighten you. When two people love each other, and are as attracted to each other as Jo and I are, and I'm sure you and Gilbert are, they find that as time goes by, the more they _give_, the more they want to _take,_ if you know what I mean. And it gets harder and harder to… restrain themselves." Phil said this all matter-of-factly, as if she were the ultimate authority on courting.

"Oh, come now Phil!" Anne exclaimed. "All you ought to do is set boundaries." Anne had thought this a rather simple and obvious part of any relationship. Phil threw her hands up in the air and shook her head.

"Oh, as if it were that simple! Don't be so naïve, Anne. Now just think. It all starts with a touch of the hand—that excites you, satisfies you. And then it's a caress, and then a kiss." She giggled at her own words as she placed a hand shyly over her mouth. "And then, a day comes when even a simple kiss seems to not be enough. You want more kisses, longer kisses… you want hands and arms and legs." Phil brushed her index finger playfully up the side of Anne's leg. Anne found herself blushing—she had never had a talk like this before, not even with Diana. Or at least, it didn't take the same tone. Yet there was more to her blush; whether Anne knew it or not, she was blushing because Phil's words were _true._ She knew them to be true, for they perfectly described the longing she felt each time Gilbert touched her or kissed her—the longing for more, more, more. Anne's face read like an open book, and Phil was a keen observer.

"Ah, there we go honey. I knew you'd understand." She gave Anne a spirited pat on the knee; she was clearly enjoying this little chat immensely. If there was one thing Phil loved, it was bestowing her own knowledge upon less-informed souls.

"Well, you find yourself wanting more of each other, until one day, when your guard is down, just the tiniest lapse of restraint and you've done the dirty deed!" Phil flung an arm dramatically through the air. Anne gasped slightly, taken by surprise at Phil's conclusion.

"I think you're exaggerating…"

"Oh, but I'm not!" Phil cried dramatically. "If you must know, Anne, there were some times… when Jo and I were alone… one thing led to another and… we had to stop ourselves." Phil paused, waiting for her words to sink in before continuing. "Now, not that Jonas would have had the nerve to go through with it. He's far too by-the-book, and he's a minister after all… but if he _had_ wanted to do it, who's to say if I would have been able to resist him—"

"Philippa Gordon!" Anne exclaimed, not sure if her ears were working correctly. Phil was positively scandalous.

"Oh, don't you _Philippa_ me, Anne," Phil demanded. "I'm merely suggesting that it's not so cut and dry as you may think—you'll soon see that. I have a cousin who didn't wait; her boy was going off to sea and she was convinced he would be drowned, so they made love the night before his ship left—funny thing is he _was_ drowned, so I suppose her reasons were valid in the end… isn't that strange? And, let's see… I've a friend of a friend who swore up and down she'd do it proper and wait, and wouldn't you know she was pregnant on her wedding day! When the baby came, everyone reasoned it was a month early, but _I _know the truth. Well… all this to say that perhaps it isn't the norm, but it _does_ happen, and you'd do well to be aware of the struggle." Phil leaned back and nodded her head at Anne, giving an air of finality to her speech.

Anne was perplexed by the sheer thought of a woman giving herself to a man before marriage. Then again, she supposed she knew little of the passions that come with being in love. This, of course, was far from true, for Anne had harbored passion in her heart from the day she met Gilbert Blythe.

"Well, I hardly think any decent person _we _know would ever dream of—"

"I'd hold your tongue Anne Shirley. After all, it's you who will stand the true test."

Anne gaped at Phil, bewildered. "What?" she gasped.

"Well," said Phil, rolling her eyes slightly, apparently tired of Anne's blatant innocence, "Jonas and I were engaged only a year, and sure, we waited, but you and Gilbert will be engaged for _three years. _And with the way you two are drawn to each other; well, I'd suggest you get down on your knees and start praying this instant for self-control, because you're in for it, honey."

Phil's statement took Anne aback. She felt rather like a small child, trying to talk to an adult of things she knew nothing about. She had never once considered that _she_ might struggle saving herself for marriage. Surely she was above that. She then began to wonder if Phil's words were true. Would it truly be as Phil said—could one moment of failed restraint lead to such a grand mistake? She thought about the way she had been drawn to Gilbert only days before, when he had kissed her on the floury kitchen floor of Green Gables. She thought of how she had pulled him so forcefully to herself. She thought of the warm feeling of longing which had spread through her body. Would that longing continue to grow?

"Ah, to see the look on your face," Phil laughed, pinching Anne on the cheek. Anne shook her head and gathered her wits about her.

"I assure you, Phil, that if things are as you say, I am determined to instill in myself the utmost patience and discipline. Gilbert could beg and plead on his hands and knees, but I wouldn't waver on my vows of purity for the world." And she believed it when she said it.

"Oh Anne, I hardly think _Gilbert _will be the one pleading on his hands and knees," said Phil with her signature wink. "Out of the two of you, Gilbert is by far the more patient."

… … …

Anne spent a whirlwind of a morning helping with the final wedding preparations. The house seemed likely to burst from the commotion within, as people rushed in and out and from room to room, carrying out odds and ends. With Mrs. Gordon at the helm, every bow was tied perfectly, each set of silverware was meticulously arranged and spaced, and not a curl on Phil's head dared move itself from its carefully chosen place. Stella arrived that morning to be bridesmaid as well, much to Anne's delight. The two girls helped Phil into her dress and shoes, while they each put on a beautiful blue bridesmaid dress. Before Anne knew it the morning had passed, and the hour of the wedding arrived.

Phil and Jonas were married at the Bolingbroke Presbyterian church, at the stroke of noon—which had long been Phil's dream. Anne entered on the arm of one of Jonas' groomsman, and they strode forward to take their places at the front of the church. Jonas stood at the end of the aisle, shifting his weight from one long leg to the other. He ran his hands repeatedly through his flat, tow-colored hair, and beads of sweat were glistening on his wide forehead. His ears, already disproportionately large for his face, were so red they looked sunburned, and stood out unforgiving from his face, which was also very red, except for a smattering of freckles across his cheeks and nose. Yet somehow, in spite of it all, Anne noted that today he did not look so homely as usual. She had always thought Jonas "all arms and legs and ears," as Aunt Jamesina had once said, yet he did not look quite so lank as usual in his sharp black suit. His face, though it showed his nervousness plainly, also carried a distinct undercurrent of joy, which alleviated the awkwardness of his features. Anne gave him a small encouraging smile as she passed him, and took her place.

Phil was a beautiful bride, and the room seemed to give a collective sigh as she entered on her father's arm. Her chestnut locks had been curled and fell delicately around her shoulders. Her bright brown eyes gleamed and sparkled. Her crooked smile was as wide as Anne had ever seen it. Phil wore just the sort of dress Anne would have imagined up for her—all ruffled and puffed below the waist, with sweet little flowers embroidered along the bottom hem and creeping up the sides. Yet the best part of the dress, in Anne's opinion, was the sleeves—long and lacy, and made of an intricate floral pattern which wound its way from shoulder to wrist.

Yes, Phil was stunning, but the one thing Anne would always remember above all else was the way Jonas' jaw nearly dropped clean off when he saw her. He stood at the end of the aisle, blinking his pale green eyes excessively, as if he could not believe what he saw, for how could such a pretty girl have fallen for a homely fellow like him? And Phil's eyes were fixed on Jonas as if he were the only person in the world. A thrill ran down Anne's spine and her cheeks reddened as she imagined locking eyes with Gilbert on her own wedding day. She glanced over at him, sitting in the third row. Gilbert was already looking right at her. Anne noticed that he was the only person in the room who _wasn't_ staring at Phil. She blushed again.

After a short yet beautiful ceremony, the happy couple strode back down the aisle, and the entire party walked from the church to Mount Holly—not more than a mile down the road. Upon exiting the church, Gilbert had immediately taken Anne's arm and whisked her off down the lane.

"Is it bad luck for the bridesmaid to look more beautiful than the bride?" he whispered to her, as they walked arm in arm among the small crowd of guests.

"Be reasonable, Gilbert!" Anne said, trying to hide how his comment had made her cheeks glow. "Phil was absolutely beautiful—a true dainty fairy of a bride."*

"She might have been," Gilbert shrugged. "I really can't be sure; my attention was otherwise engaged."

Gilbert's words were true—Anne was ignorant of the way his heart had caught in his chest when he had seen her enter through the church doors, in her midnight blue bridesmaid dress. As she began to proceed down the aisle, Gilbert had leaned forward in his chair and drunk her appearance in eagerly. Her hair had been braided across the front, yet the rest had been gathered up into a loose bun on the top of her head. Little curly wisps of auburn fell down here and there, framing her face and ears. Her dress hung elegantly around her shoulders, while the neck was in the new low fashion. Gilbert had been fascinated by the way it outlined her hips and fell gracefully from them, sweeping the ground just-so. Above all was the knowledge that this beautiful woman had chosen _him._ He had briefly imagined a day when _she_ might be dressed in all white, walking towards him down the aisle in all her angelic beauty, and goose-bumps broke up and down his arms.

Yet Anne was not aware of this, and was far too absorbed by Phil's radiance to realize that she herself might be looking exceedingly beautiful as well. She took his compliment to be a product of his usual playful banter.

"Gilbert Blythe, you are such a flirt!" Anne cried.

"I think I have a right to be," he said with a wink.

... ... ...

The wedding breakfast was a gay and lively affair. Phil was all smiles and laughter, and she gushed as she accepted the congratulations and admiration of all of her guests—given her affinity for praise, it really was her "day of days." Jonas was beaming as well, as if he hadn't actually believed Phil would marry him in the end. Now that she had, his joy was inexpressible.

Anne and Gilbert participated eagerly in the merry-making as the afternoon wore on. Anne was pleased to see that a few of Gilbert's college chums were there as well, for she had worried he would become bored. He spent part of his time with Anne on his arm, and the rest he spent with the other Redmond graduates at a table on the edge of the tent. Anne had furthermore been overjoyed to see Priscilla, who had arrived on the morning train. Laughing and catching up with another close Redmond friend made her less homesick for those days of the past—it was hard to believe it had only been a few weeks since that chapter in her life had ended.

The wedding breakfast was delicious, with cold ham, chicken salad, and creamed potatoes to say the least. The toasts were heartfelt and humorous, the cake was fruity and creamy and delightful, and there was entertainment and dancing—the dancing had been Phil's desire; after many a spirited argument, an agitated Mrs. Gordon had thrown up her hands in defeat and consented to the scheme.

As the afternoon wore on, it came time for the bouquet toss. According to tradition, Anne joined Stella, Priscilla, and a dozen other unmarried young women under the tent. Gilbert hung back with the other men to watch the show—there was nothing like a good bouquet toss to liven up a wedding. Phil stood upon a chair, with one hand clutching the white and yellow blooms while the other grasped Jonas' hand for support, lest she might overdo it and tumble to the floor. She gazed and laughed at her little crowd of admirers, enjoying the attention.

"Alright now, ladies. Don't be shy, you know it's bad luck to let it hit the ground!" she cried. With that she turned around, raised the bouquet out in front of her, and tossed it backwards over her head. The girls below lurched to the side in the direction of Phil's toss. Anne was swept along with them. Of course Anne hadn't meant to catch the bouquet; she wasn't the type to put out for such things. Yet as it sailed above her head, a girl behind her reached for it but only managed to tip it with her hand, and it went flying back up into the air. Anne turned to see where it had gone, and saw it dropping right on top of her. It was by sheer reflex that she lifted her arms and let it fall neatly into her hands. Anne simply stood there, blinking at it, as if unable to believe that it had chosen her as its target.

The entire crowd roared in applause at the excitement of the game. Phil, Stella, and Priscilla all shrieked with delight, and Anne felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment.

"Eh, BLYTHE!" someone shouted loudly, above the crowd. Anne's gaze shot over to Gilbert; the other young men at his table were whooping and hollering, as they clapped him hard on the back.

"That a boy!"

"How many doilies shall we embroider for you?"

Gilbert gave a hearty laugh, although Anne could see that he was blushing slightly as well. He peered at Anne and gave her shrug, along with a sheepish grin. Anne couldn't help but think that although she may have caught the bouquet, it was unlikely she would truly be the next to be married, as the tradition said. It would be three more years, after all. Once again, she felt those years stretch ruthlessly before her.

Once the festivities had finally wound down, Jonas Blake swept his bride down the steps of Mount Holly—amidst showers of rice and old shoes—and into a waiting carriage. After many hugs and tearful goodbyes, the happy couple made their way down the lane, Phil waving furiously and Jonas looking red and awkward and pleased as ever.

Anne and Gilbert helped the Gordon family restore the garden to order; and then, hoping to take a break from the turmoil that had surrounded the house all afternoon, took a walk through the little copse of spruces which bordered the garden. Afternoon had faded into early evening, and although the day was still rather warm, a soft breeze blew, rustling the leaves of the trees and the skirt of Anne's dress, and making the atmosphere quite serene and pleasant.

"How relieving for this day to finally be over!" Anne proclaimed, as they wound their way among the trees.

"I thought you said there were few things that made you happier than weddings?"

"Oh, but there aren't!" said Anne. "Weddings are most exciting things, but they are also one of those things that bring relief when they are through."

"Ah, yes. It's quite funny how that works, isn't it?" Gilbert chuckled, as he folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against a gnarled spruce trunk.

"It does seem that the most exciting days are also the ones that most exhaust us. I wonder if our own wedding will wear me out more or less?" Anne mused.

"Hard to say..." Gilbert said, his mind already lost in some distant thought. Anne strode over to him and slid her arms around him.

"Thank you for coming with me, Gilbert."

"I said I'd follow you anywhere, did I not?"

"I suppose you did," said Anne, slightly embarrassed as she remembered their rainy meeting only weeks before, in the park by Patty's Place. It felt almost like a dream to her now.

"And how about that bouquet?" Gilbert asked with a smirk. "It seems rather providential, doesn't it?"

Anne sighed and shook her head. "Oh, the attention that silly bouquet caused! I had meant to simply let if fall where it may; you know how people talk about such things..."

"And that bothers you?"

"Hmm?"

"People talking about us," Gilbert clarified.

"Oh, I suppose not," Anne admitted. She realized that she didn't entirely mind being the subject of gossip in both Avonlea, Kingsport, and beyond. She was no glutton for hearsay, but it was pleasing—being tied to Gilbert in the public eye.

"I was going to say... if that is the case, then you really won't want what's in my pocket. It may cause a bit of excitement back home."

"What's in your...what?" Anne asked, uncomprehending.

"There's something I've been meaning to give you this weekend," he said. "I wanted to wait until the chaos of the wedding was over. I hope you'll like it." Anne merely stared at Gilbert, waiting.

Gilbert reached his hand into his pocket and pulled out a tiny pale pink box. He carefully removed the lid. Anne gasped and brought her hand to her mouth as she looked inside, for within lay a ring of tiny white pearls. Each flawless orb gleamed and shined, and was perfectly smooth and glossy.

"You said you wanted pearls," Gilbert said simply.

"Oh, Gilbert!" Anne exclaimed. "They're… they're… well they're _gorgeous!_"

"I thought they'd suit you," he said, as he removed the ring from its box and held it between two fingers.

"That's an understatement! They're perfect!" Anne cried. Gilbert then reached for her left hand and took it into his own, drawing it towards him. He slid the pearls gently down her long, delicate finger. At the sight of Gilbert's ring against her skin, glistening in the sun, Anne felt a wave of emotion—of joy, belonging, and pure love wound into one. A tear slid down her cheek, and Gilbert wiped it away with his thumb.

"Pearls are for tears," Gilbert said, as he lifted Anne's hand to his mouth and kissed it.

A speechless Anne threw her arms back around Gilbert's neck as she held him tight. She had never wanted a diamond; she had told Gilbert that. She had wanted pearls—pearls for tears, not of sadness but of joy. She could not have picked herself a better ring had she chosen it herself. And the part she treasured most was not that her finger would forever be adorned in beautiful jewelry, but that she now had a little piece of Gilbert to carry with her everywhere—a signal to the world that she was his.

"Tears of joy," Anne said softly. "Thank you, Gilbert."

"Anything for you, Anne-girl."

Anne pressed her forehead against Gilbert's, and then he leaned in and kissed her. Anne found herself carried up in the increasingly familiar longing that came with Gilbert's touch—the urge to pull him closer, to kiss him longer and more deeply...

_"The more they give, the more they want to take..." _Phil's words from that morning entered into Anne's mind._  
_

Give and take, indeed.

* * *

**AN: Fun fact I learned while writing this: the bouquet toss originated in the 16th century, when the bride would throw it as a distraction before making her escape. It was considered good luck to get a piece of the bride's dress, and so the wedding guests would often tear the dress to shreds! Yikes!  
**

**I wanted to take a minute to individually thank everyone who has reviewed. I am unable to PM many of you… please know that I really appreciate them.**

Katherine-with-a-K: Of course I added the Jonas tidbit for you, and gladly! ;)

Hediru: Ah, but you've disabled PM's. I was so sad! Anyway, I hope to see some of your own writing soon too… now that school is done.

KatherineBrooke: Of course, the more Gilbert moments, the merrier... always! I am glad you agree.

Lina: Thanks so much for following me over here! I appreciate your comment about word choice… I struggled with it when I began Say Something and I feel I've finally got the hang of it (I had to go back and edit SS to fix the modern speech…)

Gilbert Lover: Great name! I'll fight you for him, if it comes to it. Just saying.

Tinka: You are too sweet, thank you so much for your review!

Alinya: I struggled with Windy Poplars as well. Maybe it was just easier for Maud to split them up? Maybe she just wanted a change of scenery? I am happy to have some more clarity as well.

Blythespirit: You're back, yay! :)

*Taken from Anne of the Island Chapter XXXIX: "Deals with Weddings."


	4. Iced Tea and Cherry Trees

**Chapter 4: Iced Tea and Cherry Trees**

**T**

"Forgive me, Anne—perhaps a more obvious answer may be hidden from my primitive male brain—but why are we picking cherries on Simon Fletcher's property, when there is a perfectly good cherry grove at Green Gables?" Gilbert congratulated himself inwardly on such a clever phrasing of the question.

Anne hopped over a broken portion of fence, and then turned around to face him. It was a very hot July day—the type of day that finds working men resting in the shade of trees, wiping the sweat off their brows with moistened handkerchiefs, while small children laugh and splash in swimming holes, and their mothers remain in their homes, opening doors and windows in search of cool cross-breezes, and preferring their tea iced rather than hot. The hair around Anne's face and ears was slightly damp from sweat, and several strands which had fallen loose from the long braid running down her back stood plastered comically to her forehead. She wiped these free with the back of her hand and then used it to shade her eyes.

"Because, as I already said, the cherry trees at Green Gables are of a different varietal."

"Ah yes, _varietals. _I should have known," Gilbert said. He fixed her with a grin to match the archness of his tone. Gilbert had no idea why one cherry wouldn't be as good as another. They all tasted about the same to him. "And the varietal growing at Green Gables is so clearly inferior to the much tastier _forbidden fruit_, dwelling in the Garden of Eden otherwise known as Simon Fletcher's fields. And this is because…" he paused here, raising his eyebrows and cocking his head, waiting for Anne to elaborate.

Anne sighed and rolled her eyes—Gilbert loved making Anne roll her eyes, if only because he knew she secretly enjoyed the way he teased her.

"Because, _Gilbert,_ they aren't as tart for a pie," she replied, speaking slowly, as if she were talking to a child.

"Oh, how silly of me…" said Gilbert sarcastically, "and here I always assumed a pie was supposed to be sweet."

"Well, that's why we add sugar to it."

Gilbert raised his eyebrows once again. He didn't care one bit whether the cherries were sweet or tart or sour or even salty. He merely enjoyed seeing the tiny flames ignite in Anne's eyes whenever he countered her statements for sport. He thought of a cunning rebuttal. "But if you put sweet cherries in the pie, would that not eliminate the need for sugar? Seems far more economical." He put a fist in front of his mouth, trying and failing to hide the wide smirk which lay beneath.

"Fine, you bake it then, if you're so clever!" Anne said as she turned abruptly back around, her hair a mere blur or red as it whipped through the air.

He laughed and shook his head, as he jumped the fence and jogged to catch up to her. Gilbert was surprised to find that this small effort made his heart begin to race and his breaths quicken—this he blamed on the scorching heat. He jogged a few strides past Anne and then turned to face her, walking backwards as he talked.

"I can't very well bake it, since you're so cruelly leaving me tomorrow for Echo Lodge. All I'm saying is, I've never thought of '_tart_' as a desirable descriptor for the taste of fruit."

Anne stopped walking and folded her arms over her chest. "Have you ever heard of a _tart_, Gilbert? You know, the _fruity _pastry that looks like a_ pie?_" Gilbert thought for a moment and his face sank. Of course he'd heard of a tart. It was harder to tease Anne when she spoke such sense! She had outplayed him this time.

"Well, I suppose so… once or twice," he muttered.

"And why do you think they call it that? It's because the fruit is, hmm, what's the word? Oh yes, TART!" Anne grinned and strode past Gilbert in the direction of the cherry grove, feeling satisfied upon besting her opponent.

Gilbert quickened his pace and caught up to Anne, and the two of them began to wade through the grasses of Simon Fletcher's field. The field was rather unkempt—the slender blades had grown quite tall, and had dried out completely from the heat of the summer. They crackled and whipped against Gilbert's legs as he walked. Gilbert looked out at the small brown farmhouse in the distance and wondered if he and Anne could be seen from the window. Gilbert didn't much fancy the idea of being caught by Simon Fletcher. He didn't know the old man very well, despite the fact that Gilbert's aunt was married to Simon's brother, George. What Gilbert did know, at the very least, was that the man was a recluse and a grump, who appreciated being left alone. Yet he kept his reservations quiet; Anne wanted adventure, and Gilbert was not one to stand in her way.

They were out in the open now, with no shade to be spared, and the sun's rays shown mercilessly upon them. Gilbert found himself growing quite tired; never in his memory had the heat affected him so strongly. Then again, perhaps this summer was hotter than most—surely this couldn't be normal? He was glad when they finally found themselves under the friendly shelter of the cherry grove. The trees seemed to welcome him, their bows spread wide like open arms, urging him to rest in their ample shadow.

The ground was littered with fallen cherries; the sun beat down upon hundreds of plump yet shriveling carcasses, and so the air was permeated with their fruity scent. Gilbert leaned back against a tree to catch his breath. He brought the collar of his shirt up to his face and used it to wipe his brow.

"Gilbert, you aren't tired, are you?" Gilbert looked up to see Anne gazing at him with a strange expression on her face. Surely it couldn't be worry?

"Me? No-o," he replied, perhaps too quickly. "Can't a fellow lean against a tree when he wants to lean against a tree?"

"I suppose so," said Anne. Her face spoke of concern, yet she dropped the subject. "Well then, give me a lift, will you?"

Not wanting to worry Anne—or himself for that matter—any further, Gilbert straightened up and strode over to her. He bent his knees slightly and laced his fingers together, creating a stirrup. Anne lay one hand on Gilbert's shoulder—an act which never failed to make his entire body tingle—and then placed her full weight upon his waiting hands. He pushed her upwards as she rather ungracefully pulled herself up into the tree.

"There," she said as she scuttled farther up a branch, "that was easy."

_Easy for you_, Gilbert thought. He glanced up at her, only to swallow very hard and return his gaze immediately to the ground. Anne seemed oblivious to the fact that the dirty hem of her faded blue dress was hanging open right above his head. Then again, he hadn't seen much—just _white._ Lots of white. Lots of_ fluffy, frilled_ white. How on earth did women pack in so much… _extra clothing_… under their dresses? And why on earth did they do it? And furthermore, how did they walk around in such garments, and on a day such as this? Gilbert decided then and there that he could never be a woman, if for no other reason than the clothes.

"Aren't you coming?" he heard—for he didn't dare look—her call from above. His cheeks were burning, although whether from the heat or from embarrassment, he did not know. He tossed his head, trying to shake the image of Anne's undergarments from his mind.

Gilbert's first instinct was to decline her request and remain on the ground, leaning against the tree and spitting cherry pits as far as he might. Yet who was he becoming, that he might resist the opportunity to climb a tree? The intrepid, thrill-seeking Gilbert he knew himself to be would never pass up such a request. And so he wrapped his arms around a low-hanging branch and swung himself up beside her, snagging his shirt on a twig in the process.

"Ooh, that's no good," said Anne through pursed lips, as she hung her basket on a sturdy branch and began to search for the biggest and ripest cherries.

"Climbing trees in the heat of the summer, trespassing on private land, tearing up my clothes… and all this for a pie I won't even get to eat…" he mused as he examined the small tear in his sleeve.

"Now Gil, that rings of pessimism. That isn't like you."

Anne was right, it _wasn't_ like him. It was just this stifling heat. The very air seemed alive with it, like some invisible beast which roamed the countryside unseen, yet with a presence felt all-the-more keenly. It seemed to leech the energy from his body like a disease. He took a deep breath and made up his mind not to let it get the better of him.

"The tree did me a favor, really. I never liked that shirt anyway," he said to Anne as he sent her a grin. He then began to pluck the nearest plump morsels from their stems and toss them into Anne's basket.

A quarter of an hour later, the basket was nearly full. Gilbert found himself feeling much better—a friendly breeze blew up here; it was quite refreshing as it whipped against his moistened curls and rippled the back of his shirt.

"That should do it," said Anne, as she nestled the basket in the crook between two firm branches and leaned back against the trunk of the tree. Gilbert inched his way next to her and made himself comfortable.

"You know, Gil, it just isn't quite as exciting to climb your own cherry trees, as it is to climb some else's. The thrill of being caught makes it ever so romantic, don't you think?" Anne mused, in her usual poetic tone. Gilbert shook his head and laughed, as he tossed a cherry into his mouth.

"You and your romance, Anne Shirley." He adored the look she wore when she was lost in thought, and he was content to simply study her face as she gazed blankly outward at the overgrown fields. Her cheeks were red and shining, her eyes were bright green in the afternoon light, and the heat made her freckles more pronounced than usual. He realized for the first time that she had freckles not only on her nose, but on her ears as well. There they sat—tiny brown flecks against her otherwise pale skin—and Gilbert found them absolutely irresistible.

Before he knew what he was doing, he had leaned in next to Anne's face, placed his lips on those tiny, perfect freckles, and gently sucked the upper arch of her ear into his mouth. She gave a tiny start and lost her balance, but Gilbert placed a hand on her waist to steady her.

"What are you doing, Gilbert?" she said uneasily, as if unsure what to make of this new gesture.

"I found some freckles I haven't kissed yet," he replied truthfully. He then brought Anne's ear back into his mouth.

"Freckles? I… where… ooh," she swooned as he moved his lips down to her earlobe and teased it with his tongue. Gilbert had no idea what had gotten into him, but at that moment he did not care, and apparently neither did Anne. Her head rolled back, and he moved his hand from her waist to the side of her face—the other hand clutched at an overhanging branch for support. Kissing Anne in this way was so much more intimate and _sensual _than he'd imagined it would be. He could feel her arch her back against him; her fingers grasped the fabric of his pants, just above the knee.

Once he had kissed every part of her ear, he then focused his attention on the other one, pulling and teasing it in a way that caused Anne to give a sharp intake of breath. Yet even these outward signs did no justice to the chaos he was causing within her. He was unaware that her entire body was a torrent of emotion and desire. Her mind had gone blank and the only thing she knew for sure was that Gilbert Blythe was making her feel something she had certainly never felt before.

Gilbert then continued from her ear to the soft skin around it, planting her with one wet, lingering kiss after another. Maybe Anne was right—maybe climbing trees was romantic, after all.

"Gilbert…" Anne said, tugging harder on the fabric of his pant leg. "Gilbert," she said again. Gilbert said nothing, but continued searching for more freckles to kiss, whether real or imaginary.

"Gilbert, stop," she said, this time a little more forcefully. _Stop?_ Why did she want him to stop? Was she worried he was taking things too far? "Gilbert, stop!" she cried again. Begrudgingly, he respected her wishes. He straightened up and looked at her, confused.

"It's Simon Fletcher," Anne said, pointing at something off in the distance. "He's coming this way! And it looks like he's in a hurry!" Gilbert shaded his face with his hand and peered out through the leaves of the tree. Sure enough, away in the distance Simon Fletcher was rushing down the hill towards them, with Mrs. Fletcher in tow. "Oh, goodness me," Anne sighed, as she tugged the basket free from its nook. "What does he care if we're up in his cherry trees? We're doing him a favor, really—he clearly wasn't intending on picking them himself!"

The perfect moment of seconds before had passed, and Gilbert was very sorry. He was glad to find a reason for Anne's insistence that he stop kissing her, but he found himself becoming very angry with Simon Fletcher for being that reason. He found his annoyance rather ironic, since he was the one trespassing on the old man's land. "We'd better make a run for it," he sighed, as he jumped from the tree and landed with less than usual grace on the ground. Anne let down her basket and Gilbert took it hastily.

"Would you like me to lend you a h—" yet before he had finished his sentence, Anne had swung herself out on a branch and dropped gingerly to her feet.

Anne and Gilbert raced back through the field and towards the shelter of the wood beyond, laughing until they cried as they did so. Gilbert felt like a young schoolboy once again, fleeing from the victim of one of his pranks. He turned back briefly to see Simon Fletcher in the distance, shouting and shaking his fist, while his wife brandished a rolling pin. Anne and Gilbert reached the broken portion of fence and launched themselves over it. Feet collided with dry earth and dust billowed in tiny flurries as they ran down the lane without looking back again.

"Slow down, Anne!" Gilbert called, once they were out of sight of their pursuer. He suddenly realized that he was tired—abnormally tired. The effort of escaping Simon Fletcher had worn him out more than he had expected. He felt the blood rush to his head and he staggered, before stumbling to the ground.

"Gilbert!" Anne cried as she whirled around and rushed to his side. Gilbert opened his eyes to see her leaning over him. Her green eyes were wide and her long red braid dangled from her shoulder. "Did you just _faint?_" she asked. He could hear the concern in her voice. Could he really have fainted? He very well might have, but he wasn't about to admit this to Anne.

"Did I _faint?_ Don't be silly, Anne. I just… tripped," he said. His heart was thumping in his chest and his head was pounding. What was wrong with him?

"Hmmm," Anne replied skeptically, letting the subject lie. "Well, let's get you back to Green Gables—you're probably just dehydrated. I for one could certainly use some refreshment!"

… … …

An hour later, Anne and Gilbert were settled at the kitchen table of Green Gables, polishing off large glasses of iced tea, and nibbling at the remnants of two of Marilla's plum puffs.

Marilla was scrubbing away at her countertops while Rachel Lynde sat at the table opposite them. The latter had just bestowed upon them a very long-winded speech about the folly of hanging about out of doors on a day such as this. Having finished with her scolding, she sat back, fanning her face with a newspaper, while peering down her nose at Gilbert and clicking her tongue disapprovingly.

"You look pale, Gilbert. Are you sure you are quite well?" she asked. Having brought up ten children, Mrs. Lynde could practically smell illness from a mile away.

"Very well, thank you Mrs. Lynde," Gilbert replied with forced politeness. He was tired of people asking him if he was "quite well." He had been hearing that question from his mother all summer, as well as a few well-meaning neighbors. But what bothered him most was that he himself had begun to wonder if he truly _was_ well. Mrs. Lynde looked at Gilbert skeptically.

"I don't know…" she said. "Either your mother makes up your shirts too largely, or you're rather thinner than you used to be. And I told her so, just the other day. I also said she ought to be feeding you more. Heaven knows what your mother fixes you at home. Bless her heart, but she never had quite the knack for cooking as some of the other women in this town. _She _might be thin but that's no reason not to make sure _you're_ taken care of. I suppose you're accustomed to "pick-up" suppers more often than not."

Gilbert knew better than to become offended by Mrs. Lynde's impertinence, and so he did not let her words bother him. He glanced over at Anne, who had begun to laugh and immediately disguised it as a rather violent cough. He then looked over at Marilla, who was shaking her head and had begun scrubbing her countertops more furiously than ever. Mrs. Lynde was right that his mother might not be the best cook in Avonlea, but she certainly was capable of preparing a decent and hearty meal. He told her so.

"Well, I certainly hope you are right," Mrs. Lynde said, although her voice indicated her uncertainty. "Well whatever she does get up, do make sure you take a second helping. You'd do well to have some more color in your cheeks. I told your mother that as well—"

"Say, Gilbert, I had an idea I wanted to propose to you," interrupted Anne, who had recovered from her coughing fit and was determined not to let Mrs. Lynde continue to rattle on in such a manner. Mrs. Lynde's eyes bulged slightly—she clearly thought Anne's actions rather disrespectful—but she fell silent.

"What's that?" Gilbert asked, thankful to Anne for rescuing both he and his mother from Mrs. Lynde's clutches.

"Well, I was wondering if you might visit me at Echo Lodge while I'm away," she said, her eyes large and hopeful.

"Oh," Gilbert replied, "well I hadn't thought about it—"

"Now now, Gilbert," Mrs. Lynde interjected. "You've been spending so much time here with Anne, I expect it's been tiring you out. You could do with some rest while she's away."

"Rachel—" Marilla scolded, finally finding her voice. "He is a grown man; he can make his own decisions about how he spends his time." She then looked at Gilbert apologetically, embarrassed over her friend's impropriety.

"I only meant for a day," said Anne, half to Gilbert and half to Mrs. Lynde. "The Irvings would love to see you, Gil. Paul told me so in his letter yesterday. And we're baking the pie for tea next Saturday, and seeing as you helped gather the cherries, I thought you might enjoy helping us eat it. You could come spend the day with us."

Gilbert considered Anne's proposal. He was certainly sad to see her leave for three weeks, and the idea of visiting her was quite tempting, despite the long walk to Echo Lodge. His only reservation towards the plan was a nagging concern that perhaps he wasn't well enough for such an excursion. Then again, next Saturday was still about a week away, and he hoped to be feeling much better by then.

"I'd love to visit, Anne. That sounds like a wonderful plan," he replied enthusiastically, in order to hide any hint of apprehension in his voice.

"Will you promise?" Anne asked. "Echo Lodge doesn't have a telephone, and I'd hate to be expecting you only to be disappointed."

"You have my word, Anne. I'll be there."

Anne's eyes lit up, and she reached her hand towards Gilbert's knee and gave it a squeeze. Despite his uneasiness over the walk to Echo Lodge, he was very excited to know he would be seeing Anne in one week's time, rather than three.

At this point, Davy entered the room with Milty Boulter; the two had been swimming in the creek separating Green Gables from the Haunted Wood. They plopped themselves down at the table and grabbed at the plate of plum puffs with such ferocity, one would think they hadn't eaten in days. Marilla approached the table; everyone's glasses were replenished with fresh iced tea and the conversation turned to the boys' adventures. A little while later Gilbert announced his departure, and Anne accompanied him outside to say goodbye in private.

… … …

"That Anne is a real trick, isn't she? Two months ago she swore up and down she didn't care a bit for the boy, and now he's all she thinks and breathes. Look at those two, talking at the gate for an hour at least! And in this heat!"

"She's always been known to talk to him at the gate for hours."

"Well, I suppose that is true. But not with _both_ of her hands in his. Why, it's positively scandalous! Never in _my_ day—"

"Well it is not _your _day, is it, Rachel? And I think we can hardly condemn them for a bit of hand-holding."

"Have it your way, Marilla. I think it can hardly be ignored that I have more experience in these things, but if my opinion matters not to you, well, I wash my hands of it."

"I'm sure."

"But I will say this, it's not healthy, the amount of time those two have spent together this summer. Her head will be full of nothing more than stuff and nonsense by the end—granted she's never been in short supply of either—and then I've not had my say about _him_, either."

"Indeed, by some miracle you haven't."

"Well, he is the one who really ought to take it easy. He's spent every waking moment with her, when his father can spare him, when what he really should be doing is getting some rest. Do you remember what he looked like when the two of them first returned home? All pale and tired and weak-like? Well, I thought by now he'd be recovered, but he certainly isn't as robust as he once was… maybe it'd do for a Sloane or a Spurgeon, but not like a _Blythe_ ought to be."

"You may be right, Rachel. I'll admit a similar thought has crossed my mind. But I've held my tongue about it and so will you. For pity's sake, you know he's leaving in September."

"True, but if he catches some ill-favored disease and dies before then, it won't make a lick of a difference what his plans are for the fall."

"Oh Rachel, do try and be less dramatic."

"Well, I'm glad she's got it in her head to visit Echo Lodge after all. Maybe he'll take the time apart to rest up a bit, and put his poor mother's mind at ease. When I saw her in town the other day she looked positively worked up about someth—OH! And now he's kissed her, on the _mouth!_ And you're not going to do anything about it? Simply outrageous, Marilla, that's what. If she were _my_ child—"

"Then let us be grateful she is not your child, Rachel, but rather mine."

* * *

**AN: This chapter fought me tooth and nail, but I think I wrestled it down in the end. Hope you enjoyed it! Thanks for reading, as usual!**


	5. Fate, After All

_Dearest readers: Let's just start by addressing the elephant in the room— you're right.. I haven't updated in a while. I want to apologize for my long absence, and especially for not warning you first! I had only meant to take a short break, which ended up turning into a long break, which then turned into an even longer break. I won't bore you with the story, but it started with a very busy week, and ended with a lack of inspiration. Well, I've broken free of my rut and I'm ready to plunge back into the world of Anne and Gil. So here you have it, the long-awaited chapter 5 of Around the Bend. Now, what was going on with Gil again? Oh yes, that's right…_

**Chapter 5: Fate, After All**

**T**

Gilbert Blythe sat on the front porch of the Blythe homestead, which was more commonly known to the residents of Avonlea as Fairview. The house was situated on top of a small hill, which sloped down to Barry's Pond below—now so still in the summer air, it seemed as if the tiniest touch would shatter its glassy surface. The house was further surrounded by a rippling blanket of golden-yellow fields, along with several orchards; the vibrant green apple trees clashed against the deep purple plum ones, like two great ocean waves gone to battle. Many of the other Avonlea homes were visible from the house's windows, and in the evening their lights shown like fireflies. Fairview had gotten its name, quite simply, for the beautiful vistas which its rather lofty position afforded.

It was a simple farmhouse—two stories and painted white with blue trim, and surrounded entirely by an equally white verandah. Near the front door was a set of three worn wicker chairs and a table, and Gilbert lounged here now, with his feet propped up and arms behind his head, watching the patterns the clouds made as they journeyed slowly across the sky.

As Gilbert stared upwards, lost in thought, the front door opened and his mother appeared, wearing an apron and carrying a spool of bright green yarn. She strode past him to the front steps and placed one hand on the railing; the other shaded her face as she looked down towards the lane.

"Where in heaven's name is she?" Mrs. Blythe said to herself.

Gilbert shifted slightly in his seat and turned to look at his mother. "Where is who?" he asked. Mrs. Blythe gave a start as she whirled around; the yarn went clattering to the floor and rolled down the front steps.

"Gilbert! Good heavens, you startled me!" She leaned back against the railing and brought a hand to her chest.

"I told you I was going out to sit on the porch," he replied with a small smile.

"Yes, I suppose you did," said his mother, absently. "Well you were being more… _quiet_… than usual."

"My apologies, should I have been talking with myself?"

"Well, I suppose not… how silly of me," Mrs. Blythe appeared confused. "I can't put my finger on it… oh yes. I suppose you are usually whistling, and today you are not."

"Ah…" said Gilbert lazily, "I suppose you're right. I've a bit of a headache, to be honest, so I wasn't in the mood." Mrs. Blythe's brow furrowed. She looked Gilbert up and down, taking in his features with a familiar look of subtle disapproval; it was the same look she tried to hide every day.

"I thought you complained of a headache yesterday?" she questioned. Gilbert was uncomfortable with the worry in her voice. Indeed, he did have a headache yesterday, and well before that. He'd had one ever since his afternoon with Anne in Simon Fletcher's fields. He had grown rather used to the throbbing in his temples, sometimes mild, sometimes acute. Yet he wasn't about to admit this to his mother—there was no need to worry her.

"Did I? It must have returned. It's nothing to worry over," Gilbert said, attempting to give his mother a reassuring look.

"Gilbert—" she insisted, unwilling to drop the subject, "if you're feeling a bit—"

Yet in that moment he was saved by the appearance of Mrs. Sloane, who was hurrying down the lane to the Blythe gate.

"Thank goodness, there she is," said Mrs. Blythe to herself, while untying her apron and hastily setting it on the verandah railing. "I'll be back in a minute, Gilbert. I'm giving Mrs. Sloane some yarn because… well you're not interested in why, of course… and also I'm borrowing her good silverware, because you know your Aunt Mary Maria refuses to eat with anything else, and I lent mine out to Mrs. Pye, who lent it to a cousin in Charlottetown, and… well I wouldn't expect you to care about such things. Just a moment, dear…" and with a last pained look at Gilbert she descended the porch steps, gathered the spool from the ground, and made her way down the hill.

It was clear to Gilbert that his mother was rather flustered. Then again, she was always flustered when Aunt Mary Maria came to visit, and the grump of a woman intended to stay for "a fortnight," which, in Mary Maria language, translated to at least a month. Though she never mentioned it aloud, Gilbert knew just how much his mother hated his father's cousin. Yet when Mary Maria desired to visit, John Blythe always consented readily, despite Mrs. Blythe's strong objections. The Blythes had always been a clannish folk, and a visit from a relative would never be rejected, even if that relative made life a most miserable affair.

Gilbert wished inwardly that Anne were still in Avonlea, so that he might have an excuse to escape the house frequently during his aunt's visit. Yet he was also rather relieved she had gone away—he would hate to subject Anne to Mary Maria's embarrassing antics, especially regarding her opinion of their recent engagement. In her letters, Mary Maria continually referred to Anne as "the orphan girl," and she had made her disapproval of Gilbert's choice in a wife clear.

Gilbert shifted again in his chair as he watched the interaction of his mother and Mrs. Sloane below. The yarn had been exchanged for the silverware, the two women had shared a short chat and his mother now turned to head back up the lane. A minute later she climbed up the porch steps, set down her bundle and faced him again, her hands on her hips and a determined look on her face. Gilbert sighed, preparing for his mother to resume their earlier subject.

"Well Gilbert, as I was saying… you're always trying to spare everyone worry. Now I know that headache is more serious than you let on. Your face is pale and you're sweating around your temples."

"It's a hot day, mother. I promise, I—"

"Gilbert Blythe, if you're feeling ill, tell me so right now, and I'll send for the doctor." She pierced him with a keen stare, daring him to contradict her.

"I'll admit I'm a bit tired, and yes, I have been getting frequent headaches," Gilbert said, deciding to be at least partially honest with his mother. "But there's no need for a doctor. I'm sure it's just the heat; the weather will cool down in a few days."

Gilbert's mother eyed him skeptically. "Alright then, if you say so," she said, seeing it was of no use to push the matter further. "Well one thing is for certain—you need rest, and lots of it. Between helping your father and spending time with Anne, you've hardly had a moment to yourself! I've kept my mouth shut about it but… well… never mind then. Maybe Anne spending three weeks away is the best thing for you right now." She cupped his face in her hand, then reached for her apron and tied it back around her waist. She scooped up the silverware and with that, she reentered the house.

…..

The next morning, Gilbert accompanied his father to the Bright River station, where Aunt Mary Maria was expected on the noon train from Charlottetown. After thirty minutes of waiting in the hot sun, the train arrived. Aunt Mary Maria descended, in all her glory, and along with two porters and no less than five suitcases.

"A fortnight, indeed!" Gilbert whispered under his breath, as he helped his father load the last of the shiny leather cases into the buggy. The effort involved made him feel dizzy, and he shook his head to right himself before climbing inside and taking his place next to his aunt.

"We had to make an emergency stop, you know, and all because a woman went into labor on the train," Aunt Mary Maria said, in a tone which suggested she had endured a great personal tragedy. "They needed to get her to a doctor. Twenty-five minutes, it took us! Well I marched right up to the porter and I told him, if she was foolish enough to travel in her state, it served her right to have the baby on the train! There's no need to inconvenience _us_ simply because _she_ didn't have the sense not to travel. Well, needless to say, he wouldn't listen to me. _Nobody_ listens to old women like me. Am I meant to whither away, voiceless and powerless?"

Gilbert found it amusing that Aunt Mary Maria should call herself old, when he knew very well she was only a few years over forty.

"I'm terribly sorry you were inconvenienced, Mary Maria," replied Gilbert's father.

Mary Maria leaned back in her seat and fanned her face with her handbag. "I shall want a soft cushion and a good spot of tea when we arrive at Fairview, Johnny dear. My tired old body simply doesn't travel the way it used to…"

"Laura promised to have it piping hot when we return."

"She'll have the good silver spoons out, I presume. During my last visit I was most disappointed to find that it wasn't so. Those old nickel-silver imitations are most unpleasant; they leave a bad taste in the mouth."

"She pulled it out special just for you, Mary Maria," replied Mr. Blythe, attempting to keep his voice calm. One might think it possible to grow used to Mary Maria's antics, yet upon each visit, the entire family found themselves taken by surprise at her horrid manners. Satisfied on the account of tea and silver spoons, Mary Maria turned to look at Gilbert.

"My, but you're rather quiet today, aren't you?" she said, glaring at him with raised eyebrows. "Are you quite well?"

Gilbert would have given his left arm simply to never hear that question again.

"Yes, Aunt Mary Maria. I'm _quite well, _thank—" but he was unable to finish his reply as he broke involuntarily into a coughing fit.

"Good heavens, child, but you most certainly are not well! That is a nasty cough if I've ever seen one. And has anybody told you you've been looking rather pale? Johnny, have you noticed he looks pale? Well I'm certain of it—you look pale, Gilbert." Aunt Mary Maria brought her thumb and forefinger up to Gilbert's face and pinched his chin. She used it to turn his face to the left, and then to the right.

"Yes, something is definitely off here," she said, with a click of the tongue. "Your cheeks seem quite hollow as well. Have you been eating well at home? Or do you eat your suppers at that orphan girl's house? There, that might be the issue. You can never trust an—"

"Anne, I think you mean. Her name is Anne," Gilbert corrected calmly.

"Oh yes, if you say so," Mary Maria said with a wave of her hand.

"And tell me, what was the matter with that other young lady your mother wrote of last spring? Christine, I believe her name was? She seemed to be from a very good family, and pretty too, from how Laura described her…"

"She was only a friend, Aunt Mary Maria. Anne has always been the only woman for me," Gilbert replied, squeezing his fists together and trying not to let his annoyance show.

"Well then, they all say that, don't they? Your father said that when he married your mother, even though we all know she wasn't his first choice—"

"Why, is that a new brooch, Mary Maria?" interjected John Blythe, stopping his cousin's sentence in its tracks.

…

"This tea seems a bit weak, Laura. How long did you steep it for?"

"Five minutes, Mary Maria. Same as always," came Mrs. Blythe's short reply.

"Oh, well that's your trouble. Seven minutes at least, Laura. _Seven._ Why does no one in this house remember I like a very strong tea?" cried Aunt Mary Maria, throwing her hands up into the air.

"I'll make it stronger for you next time, Mary Maria," Mrs. Blythe responded in forced politeness.

"I've never understood how you can drink your tea so weak. We might as well serve water to our guests, if we are to only steep our tea for five minutes!"

"Personally, I think five minutes is perfect," Gilbert replied simply, before smacking his lips and taking a particularly large gulp. In truth, he wasn't sure if it was the strength of the tea that was so appealing to him, or rather the way it soothed his irritated throat. The last thing he needed was to break into another coughing fit in front of his aunt. Gilbert's mother shot him a meaningful glance, pleading that he please not stir the pot. Gilbert merely grinned and shrugged his shoulders. Mary Maria appeared to have ignored his comment.

Once everyone's saucers had been drained and Mary Maria had been settled, Gilbert excused himself to his room. The ride from the train station had made him feel rather nauseous. He had hoped the tea would help to settle his stomach, but it had not. He closed the door behind him, drowning out Aunt Mary Maria's dreadful tale of the cold supper she had eaten at another cousin's house the month before. He then tugged off his shoes and drew the curtains. The lack of light in the bedroom was somehow very relieving. Not bothering to change, he lay down on his bed. Perhaps a short nap would set him strait. He would simply sleep a few hours and be up in time for supper.

Gilbert tossed and turned, but for some reason, he just could not make himself comfortable. No matter how he positioned himself, he could not relax. He felt awkward in his own skin. His headache did nothing to alleviate this feeling. He had felt tired and devoid of energy all week, and now the cough and nausea were intensifying as well. There was no escaping the fact now—something was the matter with him.

Gilbert had always been a healthy, robust boy—this owing to the "Blythe constitution," as it was called in Avonlea. He had rarely fallen ill in his childhood, and so he wasn't entirely sure how serious his symptoms were. _And this from a future doctor,_ he thought to himself with a hint of embarrassment. He suddenly felt woefully unqualified for the profession he had decided to enter.

Still struggling in vain to fall asleep, Gilbert turned his thoughts to Anne. What was she doing in this moment? Perhaps she was out collecting bouquets with Miss Lavender to adorn the tea table, or perhaps she was exploring the countryside with Paul. Perhaps she was sitting in the front garden, listening to the echoes and writing down their stories. Yes, that seemed a very _Anne _thing to do. Or maybe, just maybe, in that very moment she was thinking of him.

His lips curled up in a tiny smile, and it was with this thought that he finally achieved sleep.

…

When Gilbert awoke, it was to the touch of his mother's hand on his own. He stirred slightly, eyes still closed.

"Gilbert, honey… Gilbert," came his mother's voice through the fog of his dreams. Even though he knew she was sitting right beside him, it seemed as if the sound were coming from very far away. His eyelids fluttered open, and he was surprised to see light escaping in tiny slivers through the cracks in the curtains; he had assumed it would be evening by now. The light hurt Gilbert's eyes, and he shut them again.

"Mmmm, 'time is it?" he asked lazily, his voice groggy with sleep.

"It's 8 o'clock, dear."

"I've just missed supper then? I'm sorry… 'fraid I wasn't hungry," he murmured quietly.

"It's 8 o'clock in the _mornin_g, Gilbert. You slept through the night," said his mother calmly, although he heard the concern in her voice.

"Did I really?" he managed to say in reply. He opened his eyes again, despite the fact that the light made his temples hurt. He decided he might as well sit up. He placed his palms flat on either side of his body and pushed himself upwards, then immediately gasped and fell back down onto his pillow.

"Gilbert!" his mother exclaimed. "Are you alright?"

The pain of this simple movement had jolted Gilbert's mind into full consciousness, and he became acutely aware of his entire body. Everything ached, from his head down to his toes. His arms felt like lead as they lay beside him; his heart felt heavy in his chest. It fluttered there irregularly, like some tiny creature with a hurt wing. His stomach churned inside of him, and he could feel his lungs rasp as he breathed.

"Apparently not," Gilbert replied, attempting and failing at a small smile. His mother put a hand to his brow and gave a small gasp.

"John! John!" she yelled, her voice quivering. She stood up and swept from the room. Her voice resonated inside him—it was filled with a fear and urgency he had seldom heard in it before. When she returned to the room, she was followed by his father.

"He'd been asleep for fifteen hours, John. Fifteen! I finally woke him, I couldn't stand it any longer… and he, well he couldn't sit up. I felt his forehead, it's hot as an iron." Gilbert noticed that his mother's eyes were watering. She then hurried from the room once more. Gilbert's father drew himself up next to the bed and placed the backside of three fingers on his forehead, just like his mother had done. Gilbert could see the worry in his father's face.

"Why don't you tell me where it hurts, Gilbert?" Mr. Blythe said calmly.

Gilbert attempted to take a quick inventory of his ailments. "Why don't I just tell you where it _doesn't_ hurt? It would be a much shorter list." Gilbert attempted to chuckle at his own response, yet the effort sent agonizing pains tearing through his chest.

Gilbert's father rose from his seat and crossed to the bedroom door, and in that moment his mother reentered, carrying a tin pale, a cup, and several white towels; she was followed, to Gilbert's dismay, by Aunt Mary Maria.

"I'll call the doctor," his father said quietly, and then he made his way quickly into the hall and down the stairs. Gilbert's mother set the pail and towels down on the washstand, and then proceeded to fold one into thirds.

"If I were you, I'd have called the doctor days ago," said Aunt Mary Maria matter-of-factly. "I don't play around when it comes to illness, and neither should you, Laura. But this will teach you, that it will."

Gilbert groaned inwardly. He glanced at his mother, who had dunked a towel in the pail, which Gilbert supposed was filled with water, and was ringing it out.

"Thank you, Mary Maria," she said through gritted teeth, as she gave the towel an extra vigorous twist. She then drew herself up to Gilbert's bedside and placed it on his forehead. The cool moisture soothed his headache, and he was grateful for it.

"He ought to be drinking water, Laura. I've never raised a child myself, but even I know that liquids are an absolute necessity in overcoming illness."

"Yes, Mary Maria, that's what the cup is for," Mrs. Blythe said, this time unable to contain her irritation. "Drink up, darling," she said to Gilbert, as she lifted the back of his head and pressed the cup to his lips.

"Well then," said a wounded Mary Maria, "I'm only trying to help, but I can see I'm not needed here. Old maids like myself are never heeded much. Now, can you be a dear and make me a cup of tea when you're through here, Laura?" She then exited the room, leaving Mrs. Blythe alone with Gilbert.

The rest of the day went by in a blur. Gilbert drifted in and out of sleep. His stomach cramps grew worse; he found himself having to use the toilet several times, and in his mind, the ten steps down the hall to the washroom might as well have been a mile. He spent the rest of the time lying flat in his bed, acutely aware of all his aches and pains. He decided this was quite possibly the worst day of his life—apart from one other.*

The doctor came and the doctor went. He felt Gilbert's forehead, listened to his stomach, put a stethoscope to his chest, and felt the glands of his throat. "I have a speculation," the doctor had said. "Too early to be sure," he had claimed. "I'll revisit first thing in the morning," he had promised. He left behind what he called an "antipyretic", which Gilbert was to take four times daily.

Mrs. Blythe spent most of the day at Gilbert's beside, cupping his hand in her own and whispering in hushed, urgent tones to his father. Gilbert didn't catch much meaningful conversation—just "should have called sooner," and "hopefully he came in time" and "shouldn't have let him exert himself."

Surely they were over exaggerating the gravity of his illness.

…

Gilbert could hardly have believed that his symptoms might get worse, but they did. The next morning, he awoke to find his sheets soaked from a bloody nose. Mrs. Blythe was also alarmed to find, when she went to change his shirt, the presence of tiny pink spots along his lower chest and abdomen. She let out a shriek and fled from the room, calling to her husband.

Gilbert hardly found the strength to answer his parents' questions. Moving was not an option; he was unable to change himself, and using the toilet required the assistance of both his mother and father. Gilbert was embarrassed at his frailty—his vulnerability. Most of all, he hated for his parents to see him this way.

What he wanted most of all was to see Anne. He wished she was there to comfort him—to sit by his side and hold his hand, and sing to him in the musical voice he had loved for so many years. Yet he decided he was grateful that she was not there, for it would break her heart to see him this way. What would she think of him—so weak and helpless? He had always tried to appear strong in front of her, and he couldn't bear the thought of her seeing him otherwise. He wanted to be the one to take care of her, and not the other way around. He took comfort in the fact that he would surely be better by the time she returned from Echo Lodge.

The doctor returned for a second visit, and Gilbert lay motionless as the man once again listened to his heart, lungs, and stomach. He then pressed three fingers lightly into the right side of Gilbert's abdomen, just below his chest. Gilbert gasped and cried out; he felt a searing pain, as though he had been stabbed. "Ah… and so it is," the doctor murmured to himself. He then crossed the room to speak with Gilbert's parents. Gilbert was exhausted, and their conversation filled his ears with an indistinct buzz. From the chaos of jumbled speech, he was able to discern a gasp from his father, an agonized cry from his mother, and one single word from the doctor: "typhoid."

* * *

**AN: Made ya look! Fate has its way, and Gilbert gets the fever anyway. Let's face it, a perfect summer would have been extremely boring, wouldn't it? We're taking the romantic route here... perhaps Anne's "soothing fevered brows" dream will come true after all…**

**Thank you so much for your patience in waiting for the update! Again, my apologies for my absence. I'm back for real now, I promise!**

**Now, what could be going on with our dear, unsuspecting Anne? Stay tuned!**

*Can you guess which one?


	6. Dreams and Doubts Collide

**Chapter 6: Dreams and Doubts Collide**

**T**

Gilbert dipped the heavy wooden oars into the depths of the Lake of Shining Waters as the dory glided across its pristine surface. The sun shone brightly above, dragonflies waltzed in neat spirals among the grassy reeds, and crickets played their tiny instruments in a heavenly chorus of glittering wing upon wing. The air smelled of apple blossoms and honeysuckle and sea salt, blown in from the ocean by a pleasant summer breeze.

A more perfect day could not have been found, or so Gilbert had thought to himself. Yet just as he leaned back and began to whistle a merry tune, feeling compelled to join in the merrymaking around him, the sun above was thrown into shadow. Thunder suddenly shook the sky overhead and sheets of rain cascaded down from above. A strong wind picked up in the east; it moaned and wailed as a mother grieving over a lost babe. The surface of the lake—smooth and glossy only seconds before—grew angry; it churned and convulsed in towering waves befitting an ocean storm.

Gilbert was seized with confusion, overshadowed still more by fear. He plunged the oars back into the choppy water, paddling desperately for the shore. Waves tossed the dory left and right as a feather blown by the wind.

"Please!" he cried out, although to whom he did not know. "Let me be!"

Yet the storm raged on. A wave rose up before him, tall and menacing in stature, and Gilbert was powerless to evade it. He watched helplessly as blue turned to white and a wall of ice crashed down upon him, knocking him from the boat with a great force. He collided with the angry waters and was forced below the surface, under the pull of the merciless wave.

He struggled wildly against the motion of the water, attempting to reach the ring of dim light above him. Yet before he could break the surface, he felt a hand wrap around his foot, capturing it with an icy grip. Gilbert tossed and turned, but he could not break free. He opened his eyes and peered through the black water, yet he could not tell to what strange creature the hand belonged. Down, down it dragged him, deeper and deeper into the lake's murky depths, before finally turning to face him.

Gilbert choked as he let out a gasp; the taste of metal and dirt filled his mouth. Floating before him was a mermaid, terrible yet beautiful at the same time, with hair like fire and eyes as green as emeralds. Her skin was smooth like porcelain; it glowed and shimmered before him. The mermaid reminded him of someone he knew, yet he could not place it...

"Let me go!" Gilbert cried out in desperation. He needed to get to the surface; he needed air. Yet his words only angered the creature. Her eyes flashed. She opened her mouth and Gilbert saw a set of pointed, razor sharp teeth. She let out a terrible cry before whipping her flaming red hair back around. With Gilbert's ankle still clutched in her hand, she plunged ever-deeper into the lake. Gilbert's struggles were growing more feeble; he knew now that he was going to drown. This strange creature would drag him to his grave. Never again would he see the light of day, never again would his lungs fill with air. Never again would he see his sweet, beautiful… and at that moment, Gilbert realized exactly who the mermaid reminded him of.

"Anne!" he screamed, still fighting to break free of her clutches. Why was she doing this? Didn't she love him?

"Anne!" he called again. "Please!" Yet she did not relent. Had everything been a lie? Had their bond been merely a figment of his imagination? Gilbert began to grow dizzy; the mermaid grew out of focus and her flaming hair began to dim. The end was drawing near. With one last effort, Gilbert cried out, louder than before.

"Anne... no! Anne!"

…

"Gilbert… wake up, Gil," said Mrs. Blythe softly, having rushed to her son's side after hearing his shouts from down the hall. She watched as he tossed and turned feebly in his bed. She placed a hand on his shoulder; his skin was hot to the touch.

"Anne… Anne…" Gilbert moaned weakly, only vaguely aware of his mother's presence. Mrs. Blythe prodded him very gently now, and his eyelids fluttered open. He peered around, exhausted, but only grew confused. Where was he? He appeared to be in a bedroom, yet the floor moved like water and his bed rocked as if it were floating in it. The sensation made him feel quite dizzy.

Which room was this? Was it his room in Kingsport, with the beige curtains and desk littered with books and charts and tiny scraps of paper? No, it was far too clean for that. Yet it wasn't his room at Queen's either—that had a slanted ceiling with an oddly-shaped crack that looked like an S... S for Shirley. Yet he couldn't possibly be home at Fairview… there was too much to study before he could return—essays to write, exams to take. And then there was the matter of Anne, who was slipping through his fingers; Anne, who had rejected Gilbert and then chosen another over him. After graduation, he would lose her forever… or would he?

Tiny glimpses of memories swam to the surface of his mind like still photographs: Anne with red-rimmed eyes and sopping wet hair and clothes, Anne wearing a tiny circlet of pearls on her finger, Anne in a cherry tree… Gilbert twirling her in soft circles in the garden of Green Gables, and brushing soft locks of red out of her face as she slept on his shoulder, and kissing the flour off her nose on a dusty kitchen floor. The pictures were too vivid to be dreams, so they must have been real. Yes, they _were_ real. Term was over, Anne had chosen _him_ in the end, and the pearl circlet was a token of their engagement—he remembered buying it in Charlottetown only weeks before.

Gilbert looked up at the ceiling and eyed the dark wooden beams that stretched across it. He had trouble focusing on them—the spaces between them appeared to grow and shrink in turn. He brought his eyes down and saw the dark blue woolen curtains; they were drawn, which was strange, for Gilbert seldom drew his curtains—he enjoyed the kiss of warm light which greeted him each morning. Then there was the mahogany washstand at the foot of the bed, in the same dark shade as the beams above, and the tiny closet in the wall across from it. Books were stacked in neat rows on a set of shelves, and were also piled on a desk by the door. Yes, this was his room in Fairview after all.

Yet why did he feel so disoriented? He tried to roll over onto his side, then grimaced immediately and lay back down. Why had that hurt so badly? Was something wrong with him? He attempted to rise from his bed, failing utterly.

"Gilbert, this is no time for you to be sitting up," came his mother's voice. He turned and looked up at her. Her soft brown eyes stared at him out of a pale, heart-shaped face. Gilbert noticed tiny creases at the corners of her eyes and little wisps of gray hidden among the chestnut-brown hair around her temples—a sign that she was no longer as young as she once was. Her face, every bit as lovely and beautiful as it had always been, carried a burden of sadness he had seldom seen in it.

"Why not?" he asked. Yet the voice that escaped his lips was not his own—it was weak and hoarse. It was the voice of a stranger.

"Why?" his mother repeated his own words, puzzled. "Gilbert, you are very ill. You need your rest." Was he indeed ill? Gilbert didn't remember falling ill. Why, only yesterday he was… yet Gilbert could not remember what he was doing yesterday. He couldn't even remember how he came to be in his bed.

"I am… ill?" Gilbert repeated faintly, while feeling acutely just how much his body ached. He hardly had the strength to lift a fingertip. He felt small and feeble—almost lifeless.

"Well… yes, darling," said his mother, her eyebrows arched in confusion. "You have Typhoid fever, Gil. Do you remember, dear? The doctor explained everything... it's important for you to get as much rest as you can." Gilbert tried to remember this, yet he could not. Surely this was all a bad dream; that was why he was so confused. Yet he couldn't be dreaming; he had just awoken from a dream. A dream about...

"And… Anne?" he asked.

"Anne?" said his mother in surprise. "Well, Anne isn't here, Gilbert. She is at Echo Lodge, visiting the Irvings."

"Oh yes, I remember now," said Gilbert, half-truthfully. "Will she be here for supper?"

Mrs. Blythe's brow furrowed right down to the bridge of her nose.

…

"He's confused, John. He seems disoriented, and he's forgetting things," Mrs. Blythe said later that morning as she stood at Gilbert's washstand, elbow-deep in a tin bucket and scrubbing away at several white towels, which needed washing before reassuming the office of cooling Gilbert's burning forehead. Mr. Blythe patted his wife on the shoulder, attempting to conceal the fear he himself was harboring inside.

"Delirium is always present at this stage. Do you remember what the doctor called it?"

"Nervous Fever, yes," Mrs. Blythe said with a sniff, as she wrung a towel out to dry.

"He told us to expect this—it's common. It doesn't mean that things…" yet Mr. Blythe couldn't bring himself to finish his sentence. Both Mr. and Mrs. Blythe knew the potential outcome of a bad case of Typhoid fever, and the doctor had made it very clear that Gilbert's case may turn out to be, indeed, a bad one. Regardless, neither of them voiced this possibility out loud—it was a sort of unwritten agreement between the two of them.

"Anne…" Gilbert murmured once again from across the room.

"He's been talking in his sleep," Mrs. Blythe added. "A pack of nonsense—I can never make it out. But mostly he just calls her name. John, I think we should fetch her."

Mr. Blythe put his head in his hands. "Laura, we discussed this. Anne is several miles away. Who could make the trip? And regardless, we shouldn't bother her. Imagine how worried she would be. Gilbert will be well soon, and—"

"But what if he doesn't get well?" Mrs. Blythe said, her jaw set and her face stern. She had raised the subject which they had wordlessly agreed never to breach, and Mr. Blythe's breath caught in his throat.

"How can you say that, Laura?" he responded in quiet disbelief. "He's a strong lad; of course he will get better…"

"But what if he _doesn't_, John?" said Mrs. Blythe, more loudly and firmly still. The towels lay forgotten on the washstand. "Oh, don't look at me that way! Let's take just a second to say aloud what we have both been thinking for the past few days!" she cried, exasperated. "I hope and believe that Gilbert will get better, I truly do. But what if he _doesn't_? Imagine that poor girl's distress, not being able to say goodbye—not even knowing he was sick in the first place?"

"But Laura…" interrupted Mr. Blythe, neither willing nor able to imagine the situation which his wife now spoke of so blatantly, "how can you possibly talk—"

"I haven't finished!" she exclaimed, anger now beginning to fill her voice. "How could we live with ourselves, knowing we robbed her of the chance to be here with him for his last few days? She is engaged to him, for heaven's sake! She has a right to know!" she cried, and with that, Mrs. Blythe burst into hysterical sobs. Her breaths came sharply as tears poured from her eyes and caught in her throat. She was unable to speak for a long while. Then finally, "She needs to know, John. It is selfish of us to keep it from her."

Mr. Blythe felt his own eyes grow warm. Fetching Anne meant admitting the possibility that his son might not recover, and that was something he did not want to face. Yet he was forced to agree with his wife—it wasn't right for them to keep Anne in the dark, if Gilbert's case really was a grim one.

"Alright, Laura," he said in a whisper. "Only let's wait until the doctor visits. Then we'll have a better idea if… how bad it is." Mrs. Blythe looked up at him out of watering eyes—full of _thank you's_ spoken far more loudly than words ever could. With that, Mr. Blythe wrapped her in his arms and rocked her slowly, as Gilbert lay asleep in his bed, oblivious to the turmoil which consumed his parents.

…

Gilbert wasn't sure which he preferred—being awake or asleep. When he was awake, there was pain. It felt as if his very body was rejecting him, and attempting to send his soul on a journey to some otherworldly place. Yet when he was asleep, there were the nightmares, each more strange and terrifying than the next: dreams of being stranded on a rock in the center of an ocean storm, surrounded by sharp teeth and tentacles; dreams of running across wide open plains, while the earth behind him cracked and fell away; dreams of fire falling from the sky, burning Avonlea to the ground in clouds of smoke which then turned to rear their horned, fanged heads at him. And then there were the dreams of Anne. These were not happy dreams, full of love and sweetness. Instead, in each dream Anne would be taken from him, or even worse—she would not want him. The worst dreams of all were the dreams of Anne with Roy—with him in a way that Gilbert himself had not yet been—which made him cry out, desperate to end this cruel torture.

Even when Gilbert was awake, his thoughts were hardly less agonizing. Creeping into his body and filling him up, more swiftly and subtly than even the fever had, was doubt. Where was Anne right now, and why wasn't she with him? Could it be that she never cared at all? He had tricked her with his kiss—how could he have done such a thing, when she had been so vulnerable and helpless to resist? He had fooled her into thinking she loved him through sly words and passionate touches and cleverly designed allurements.

If she truly loved him, she would have come. He glanced at the empty chair next to the bed and knew she had finally seen through his ruse. Memories of Anne flashed through his mind, each one now tainted with uncertainty. Did a grimace flash across her face when he presented her with that silly pearl circlet? She had cried then—she probably did not fancy it. Had she wanted nothing more than to pull away when he kissed her in Simon Fletcher's cherry tree? She had been pleading with him to stop, after all. Had she come with him willingly to the courtyard outside the Convocation dance? He had pulled her through the crowd then, hadn't he? Perhaps she had been helpless to break free of his grip. Every moment he had shared with Anne over the past month had been thrown into a different light—Anne did not care, he was sure of it, and the knowledge of this crippled him more than even his illness.

Gilbert began to feel hopeless. For the first time, he began to wonder if he would indeed recover. The fever consumed his mind and body and he wasn't sure he had the strength to fight. He was growing weaker by the hour; what if the darkness which creeped at the edges of his mind had come to swallow him up into nothingness? What if he gave in to its call, just for a moment? And if the fever did claim him, would Anne be pleased to finally be free of him, or would she discover that deep down, she had cared all along?

"Anne," he moaned again in his sleep. Little did he know, Aunt Maria Maria had been passing by the door and heard his cry.

...

"All he does is call out for that orphan girl," Mary Maria said to Mr. and Mrs. Blythe over a very melancholy tea that afternoon. John Blythe said nothing. He placed both elbows on the table, stroking the graying curls on the sides of his head—now rather more scarce than in days of old. His wide forehead was wrinkled and the tips of his hazel eyes were turned down in a somber expression. He took a sip of tea and wiped tiny droplets from his mustache. Mrs. Blythe, who sat next to him, was staring off into the distance, hardly cognizant of Mary Maria's words.

"Good heavens, will no one pipe up and say something here? Am I to carry on the entire conversation by myself? Such a way to treat a guest..."

Mrs. Blythe tore her gaze from the wallpaper and stared in awe at Mary Maria. She was a patient woman, but having Mary Maria in her house at a time like this was becoming positively unbearable. She had pleaded with John to turn her out of the house given the circumstances, but he had refused.

"I'm sorry, Mary Maria. I'm afraid I'm not quite myself at the moment. In case you were unaware, my son is very ill upstairs—"

"But you are not, my dear," interrupted Mary Maria. "No sense in moping about… that won't do anything to change his fate. And even worse, it puts a bad aura over the house. Weakness breeds weakness, or so I always say. It'll do him some good if you perk up. There's plenty you can do—lord knows the washing hasn't been done in a couple of days, and the floors look like they could use a good scrub—"

Mrs. Blythe said nothing, but quietly rose from her seat and walked, stony-faced and tight-fisted, down the hall and out the front door. It was here she was greeted by the doctor.

Minutes later, Mr. and Mrs. Blythe stood patiently in a corner of Gilbert's bedroom as they watched the doctor perform his daily examination. They were accustomed to the procedure by now, and, as usual, waited with baited breath for an update on Gilbert's current state. Mrs. Blythe passed the time by looking over the photographs in the tarnished silver frames atop his desk, and lingering on the titles of his favorite books—the ones which never gathered dust and could always be found in a tiny pile on the desk's hardtop.

The doctor felt Gilbert in the usual places and asked the usual questions. Gilbert's muddled replies came through labored breaths, and by the end of the examination, he had already fallen back asleep.

The doctor finally arose and crossed to Mr. and Mrs. Blythe. He looked at them with a sorrowful expression. He opened his mouth to speak several times, yet it seemed as though he could not find the proper words.

"Is it… bad?" Mrs. Blythe uttered feebly. The doctor sighed and ran a hand over his balding head.

"I'm afraid there's no easy way to say this," he began slowly. "I want to be honest with you. This is one of the worst cases I have seen. It's progressing quickly and he is entering the most critical phase. He's a strong boy, or so I've heard, so I can't say for certain what the outcome will be…" Mrs. Blythe put a trembling hand to her mouth, while Mr. Blythe stared blankly at the doctor, waiting for him to continue.

"I want you to be prepared…" the doctor added quietly, before dropping his gaze to the floor. Mrs. Blythe felt as if the world was crashing down around her, yet she brought herself to speak.

"Prepared for _what?" _she asked, unsure if she wanted to hear the answer. It was a few seconds before the doctor responded.

"For the worst," he replied simply. "I'm not suggesting it's inevitable, but you need to consider it as a very real possibility. I'm sorry, I know this isn't easy for you," he said, yet his voice was drowned out by Mrs. Blythe's violent sobs. "Gilbert needs constant attention. I'm going to recommend you hire a trained nurse to come and stay here immediately. If you like, I'll 'phone to Carmody this minute and have it all arranged."

Mr. Blythe readily accepted the doctor's offer, and so he left the room immediately, leaving them alone with Gilbert. Mrs. Blythe seated herself on the side of Gilbert's bed and took his hand up in both of her own. She pressed it gently to her forehead as she slouched over, feeble and dejected.

"No, not again," she cried quietly, choking on her tears. "Please, not again."

"Not again," she repeated, "not again…" Her thoughts turned to a tiny grave in the rear garden of Fairview, where a small body had been lain many years ago—a body that had spent only a few short days on this earth. On that fateful day, Mrs. Blythe had been sure that she could never again endure such pain; staring it in the face now crippled her with fear.

Mr. Blythe sat next to his wife; she rested her head on his shoulder as violent sobs racked her chest.

"Laura," he whispered softly into her hair. "I'm going to 'phone Green Gables. It's time."

* * *

_AN: Phew! Someone grab me a box of tissues and let's all light a candle or two because that was some dark stuff! Melancholy isn't exactly my specialty, so this was quite interesting to write, but it was also refreshing for a change. I' m interested to know how it came off. I originally planned to bring Anne into this chapter, but it stretched itself out more than I had planned. I really wanted to get into Gil's head first. Thank you so much for reading. I am so happy to hear you didn't all give up on me! And an extra thanks for your reviews. You have no idea how much it means each time someone tells me they are enjoying this story! It really makes me want to keep writing. I love hearing what you think (good or bad, I should add)!_

_I should add that the tiny grave was my attempt at some insight into why Gilbert has no siblings. There's a bit more to this but now wasn't the time to include it. _

_And now, we finally head over to see what Anne is up to..._


	7. Love Knows

_And now we finally come to Anne. If you'll remember, Gilbert had agreed to make the trip to Echo Lodge for tea on Saturday (a week into her visit). I have a feeling he isn't going to make it…_

**Chapter 7: Love Knows**

**T**

Anne's visit to the Irvings was, by all appearances, everything she had hoped it to be. She loved the enchanted feel of Echo Lodge; whenever she was there, she felt as if she had stepped out of the real world and into the pages of a fairy-tale. She felt young and romantic and whimsical, free to let her imagination run away with her as she used to do when she was a child. Echo Lodge was a place frozen in time—the ivy would forever creep along the grooves of the red-stone house, the fairies would continue to dance and sing in the fields of clover, and the spruces would never cease to arc their great needled branches over the garden below.

Anne had been pleased to find both the house and its inhabitants every bit as beautiful and thriving as the last time she had lain eyes upon them. Paul was growing taller and more handsome by the day—at sixteen, his face was becoming that of a man, although he still retained a bit of his boyish glow and spirit. His dark blue eyes and defined jawline were nearly a mirror of his father's, although where Paul's hair was a shiny chestnut brown, Mr. Irving's was every bit as salt-and-pepper gray as Anne remembered. Miss Lavender was her usual rosy-cheeked, pearly-haired, dimply-smiled self, and Charlotta the Fourth's over-large grin was perhaps wider than ever before.

Yet as Anne spent her days soaking up the beauty of nature outside the house and delighting in the fellowship and stories shared within, she could not deny a strange sense of foreboding growing within her. It had tiptoed into her heart on the first day of her visit, a silent yet sinister stranger, and since then it had taken up residence, causing a dull ache that Anne simply could not explain. She knew not the reason for her unease, but somehow she could not help feeling that it had something to do with Gilbert.

Anne first dismissed her anxiety as a product of Gilbert's absence; after all, they had hardly spent a day apart since Anne first came into the knowledge of her love for him. This was the first time she had been away from him, and she was failing the test utterly. If this was what it felt like to miss him, she was certain she could not stand the three years of separation which lay ahead.

As the week wore on, Anne's anxiety only grew. Perhaps something was wrong with Gilbert? She wished she could ring him in Avonlea, but Echo Lodge did not have a telephone. More than once she entertained the possibility of cutting her visit with the Irvings short and rushing home, but she dismissed the urge. She told herself that she was nothing but a pathetic, lovesick girl, without an ounce of the patience nor the fortitude of the boy she loved. The feeling of foreboding was nothing more than her imagination running away with her—something that was bound to happen at Echo Lodge. She took comfort in the fact that Gilbert would be joining her that Saturday, if only for the afternoon. Once that day arrived, the unease ebbing away at her heart would surely dissipate.

Yet when the morning of Gilbert's visit did finally dawn, with all of the magical splendor that a morning in that special corner of the world ought to have, Anne only found herself more distraught. She could not enjoy the morning chorus of the sparrows and chickadees, and the glint of the sun on the Grafton River below did nothing to stir her soul. Anne felt sick with worry—something must be very wrong.

"Everything alright, ma'am?" said Charlotta the Fourth, as Anne entered the front garden a few minutes later in search of a quiet path down which to clear her head. Anne eyed Charlotta's freckled face and large, toothy smile. The pink blossoms in her arms accentuated the perpetual redness of her cheeks.

"Hmmm?" Anne replied absently. Charlotta stood up from the patch of lilies she had been picking over and wiped her brow with her arm.

"If you don't mind me saying so, ma'am, you look a bit distraught."

"Do I?" said Anne, realizing she had been biting her lip and fiddling absent-mindedly with the end of her braid. She tried to gather her composure.

"Yes ma'am. Ah, but I suppose you're just anxious to see Gilbert this afternoon, that's it. I've never been in love before, ma'am, but I reckon it's an uncomfortable thing. Shall I fix you something to help with the nerves, ma'am?"

At Charlotta's mention of Gilbert, Anne felt her eyes begin to grow warm. She pressed her fingers to their corners to keep them from watering. She wanted nothing more than to fall into a heap on the ground and sob out her worries, yet she knew Charlotta would not understand. She needed to talk to a true kindred spirit—someone who might possibly understand how a person could feel a feeling so strongly, yet without reason. It was just then that Anne noticed Paul, heading into the woods on the west side of the garden with an axe slung over his shoulder. _Paul._ She needed to talk to Paul.

"No thank you, Charlotta, excuse me!" Anne apologized, as she sprinted across the lawn and off towards the spot where Paul had disappeared.

When a much-winded Anne finally caught up to Paul, he had selected a rather thick spruce tree and was staring keenly up at it in contemplation.

"I've always hated chopping down trees," Paul admitted as she approached him. "Never again will they reach their dainty fingers up to the sun; never again will the wind whistle through their leaves—I feel as if I am silencing their grand voices forever."

Anne drew herself up next to Paul and fingered the slick needles of the tree in question.

''I think if I were to ever chop down a tree, I should say a little thank you first," said Anne. "I would wrap both of my hands up in its leaves and thank it for its sacrifice—for its many years of purifying the air we breathe, and now for warming us when we are cold, and fueling the fires to cook our food."

Anne's suggestion, which Marilla would have called "a load of poppycock," made every bit of sense to Paul, and he nodded his head in agreement. "Shall we then?" he asked.

"Oh," said Anne rather dully, setting herself down on a nearby boulder and drawing her knees up to her chest. "I don't think I have the energy to make up something suitable now. I'd only do the tree a disservice." She brought her gaze to the ground. A moment later, she heard the crunch of dried needles under Paul's feet and saw his shadow throw the ground into darkness as he approached her and placed a hand gently on her shoulder.

"Something is upsetting you, isn't it, teacher?" Paul asked quietly. Gray eyes looked into dark blue ones as Anne raised her gaze to meet his. She said nothing, but her quivering lip gave her away. "I've noticed you haven't quite been yourself, although I haven't mentioned it in front of Mother Lavender and Father," Paul added. "You seem worried about something."

Anne was amazed at Paul's perception, yet thankful for it. She had always treasured her friendship with Paul—of all the kindred spirits in the world, Paul had always been the kindredest to her. His imagination and sense of the world rivaled only her own.

"I feel so foolish, Paul," Anne said with a sigh. "I can't explain it, but ever since I've arrived here, I've felt a strange sense of unease. Each day it grows worse, and I can't help but suppose… oh well never mind, it will just sound silly."

"It's not silly, Anne. What do you suppose?" Paul asked.

"Well, that it's something to do with Gilbert," she admitted with a blush. "I know it sounds strange, but somehow I just feel that he isn't coming for tea today. No, I don't feel it, I _know_ it. And beyond that, I think something is wrong, Paul. Oh, I know you must think me absurd…"

"I don't think you absurd, Anne," said Paul seriously, using Anne's true name for the first time in her memory. He looked off into the distance, his mind miles away. They sat quietly for several moments; Anne did not know what to say next. She looked down and began fingering her braid for the second time that morning.

"I felt it once," came Paul's soft voice out of the silence. Anne glanced up; she had not expected this.

"You did?"

Paul paused, recalling some past memory. "Yes, when my little mother died," he said. Anne's lips parted slightly in surprise, yet she said nothing. She knew his mother had died while Paul was only eight years old, yet he had never spoken of how it happened.

"We were living in Boston, you know. My uncle and I took the train to Cape Cod—just for a short fishing trip. Well, she had caught meningitis, although nobody knew yet. She was as beautiful and lovely as ever when I left her, but two days into our trip she died. And Anne, I _felt_ it. I can't explain how, but I _knew… _right in that moment. I could tell you the very minute that it happened."

Anne was speechless. Paul thought for a moment before continuing, "All I remember after that is screaming for my uncle to take me back, and then arriving home and rushing into my father's arms, and crying until there were no more tears left. He never even had to tell me the news." Anne's eyes grew wide and she felt a pang of sorrow for Paul. She could see the scene plainly in her mind—of a tiny Paul sobbing into his father's shoulder—and her heart broke for him.

"I'm ever so sorry, Paul," Anne said, giving his knee a squeeze.

"It was a long time ago," he said, as if to let her know he was alright. "What I mean to say is that I do believe it's possible, when you love someone very much, to _feel_ their pain."

Anne thought over Paul's words and began to grow very frightened. How much danger must Gilbert be in—how much pain must he be feeling—to make Anne feel it too? Her throat began to feel thick and her mouth grew dry; she felt unsteady on her feet. Anne met Paul's gaze with eyes full of fear and the two shared a silent exchange of words unspoken.

"_Should we wait?"_

"Can _you wait?"_

"_Will you take me there?"_

"_Do you even need to ask?"_

Five minutes later, Paul had rushed off to saddle up the Irvings' horse, while Anne returned to the house in search of Miss Lavender. She found her in the kitchen, humming a merry tune to herself as she mixed up a batch of doughnuts.

She looked up at Anne and her plump cheeks dimpled in a girlish smile. She wiped a frosty curl from her face with her forearm and crossed to the sink, where she worked the sticky dough from her fingers. She then turned around to face Anne, while wiping her hands on a towel. Her smile evaporated as soon as she saw the look on Anne's face.

"My goodness, Anne, are you feeling alright?" Miss Lavender asked. Anne felt very sorry to admit to Miss Lavender that she was ending her visit prematurely, yet the throbbing ache inside her told her that she must.

"I'm dreadfully sorry, Miss Lavender, but I'm afraid I must return to Avonlea," Anne said. Miss Lavender looked confused, and Anne felt compelled to explain. "Gilbert is… is… well he's not going to..." Anne's voice broke and tears began to stream down her cheeks.

Without a word, Miss. Lavender strode towards Anne and wiped away her tears with a pink handkerchief.

"No need to explain, dearie. When you know, you know."

Anne had never been more thankful to be in a house full of kindred spirits.

…

The ride from Echo Lodge to Green Gables was a short one on horseback, but to Anne, trapped in a world of darkness and dread, if might as well have been an eternity. There was no doubt in her mind that something was very wrong with Gilbert, and not knowing exactly _what_ had happened was the worst part of all. No matter what trouble had befallen him, knowing would be better than not knowing. She tortured herself by imagining a thousand plights for her beloved Gil, each more unsettling than the next. At first she presumed there had been an accident of sorts, but she eventually ruled out that possibility. The unease in her heart and mind had been growing steadily; if there had been some mishap or disaster, she certainly would have felt it as a sharp, sudden prick of alarm.

Anne eventually settled on the idea that Gilbert must be ill. The more she pondered this possibility, the more it made sense to her. Anne remembered how pale and sickly Gilbert had looked at the end of term. He had recovered somewhat over the summer, but he had never returned to his usual state of robustness. And hadn't he been out of sorts on their last outing, while they picked the cherries for that cursed pie? She recalled him falling as they fled Simon Fletcher's fields, along with her skepticism over his insistence that he had tripped rather than fainted. She remembered his annoyance at snagging his shirt in the tree, which she had thought contrary to his normal easy-going character. Hadn't she thought him rather tired that day? Hadn't Mrs. Lynde insisted he looked ill?

How could she have been so foolish as to miss the signs? As his future wife, shouldn't she know him better than anyone else? She of all people should have recognized what was happening. And what kind of lover was she, to abandon Gilbert just when he needed her most? She felt ignorant and selfish and unworthy of him.

Still worse than the multitude of questions circling about Anne's mind was a tiny voice lurking beneath it all, whispering over and over again, "_This is all your fault."_ This, above all else, Anne could not take. If Gilbert was indeed ill, then she was to blame. He had worn down his health because of her. He had studied himself into madness so that he might become numb—because he could not take the pain she had caused him. She and she alone had been the reason for his sallow skin, dark-rimmed eyes, and baggy clothing. Whatever ailment had befallen him, Anne was sure that she was the cause of it. She tortured herself with this thought for a short while, until she could stand it no longer. She then tried to cast it away—she did not know for sure that he was ill, after all. Perhaps she was tormenting herself over nothing. This she told herself, though she did not believe it.

Anne wrapped her arms tightly around Paul's waist as the horse sped through Middle Grafton, towards Avonlea. She pressed her forehead into his back and whispered, "Faster, faster." Yet the wind whipped against her face and carried off her cries.

When at long last Paul guided the horse up the lane to Green Gables, Anne was relieved to find both Marilla and Rachel Lynde sitting on the front porch. Anne did not wait for Paul to help her safely to the ground—rather she flung herself from the saddle and bounded up the front steps. Marilla had already risen to meet her.

"Good heavens, thank goodness you've returned! Only… I can't say I'm not surprised, we didn't expect you for two weeks more," Marilla reached forward and took Anne's shoulders in her hands. "Now, I need to speak with you about something."

"You'd best have her sit down, Marilla," insisted Mrs. Lynde from her chair, where she was mending a rather large pile of clothes.

Marilla gave Mrs. Lynde a pointed look before glancing back around at Anne. She gestured towards a nearby chair. Anne, however, stood rooted on the spot.

"Please, Marilla," Anne said, her breaths coming quickly and heavily, "I haven't a second to lose. Where is Gilbert?" Marilla's face fell and her brow furrowed.

"That's what I need to speak to you about, Anne. Please sit—"

"But this is _important_, Marilla—" Anne interrupted.

"I would be hard pressed to believe that anything you have to say is more important that what I have to tell you, Anne," Marilla said sternly, oblivious to the fact that she and Anne were both attempting to bring up the same subject. "Now please, sit—"

"I will do no such thing!" Anne cried. Paul now climbed the verandah steps, having secured the horse, but neither of the three women noticed him. "Now please, I beg of you, Marilla, tell me what you know!"

Marilla, who assumed Anne remained in the dark as to the doings in Avonlea, looked confused. "Heavens, Anne, you are speaking nonsense! I am to tell you what I know about _what?"_

"About Gilbert!" Anne cried, almost hysterical. "What is the matter with Gilbert?" Anne's eyes were wide and pleading, her hands were clasped together as if in prayer. Mrs. Lynde raised her eyebrows and Marilla looked taken aback.

"Why… Gilbert? But how on earth could you know, child? You've been away..." Marilla stuttered. Though Anne had known all along that something was wrong with Gilbert, Marilla's words only served as the confirmation she had dreaded, and her heart grew heavy in her chest.

"There will be plenty of bushes to beat around later, Marilla. What has happened to him? Tell me now!" Anne cried, this last sentence coming out as a high-pitched shriek.

"Well he…" yet Marilla faltered; the distress on Anne's face was disconcerting.

"Please Marilla," Anne begged, her voice shaking.

Marilla paused for a moment, trying to choose the proper words. "He's ill, Anne. He's come down with Typhoid fever."

Marilla's words echoed back and forth through Anne's brain until they had no meaning; so plain they were, yet so impossible to comprehend. She gave out a muted cry and clutched Marilla's shoulder to steady herself.

"T… Typhoid?" Anne asked stupidly, as if questioning this simple fact might make it less certain. Marilla merely nodded, her eyes full of sorrow and sympathy. "And… is it… is it _serious_?" she managed to inquire. The look on Marilla's face told all, yet Anne needed to hear it for herself.

"Well… keep in mind that we can't know for sure," Marilla started, yet communicating the gravity of Gilbert's illness to Anne was more difficult than she had imagined. She tried and failed to find the right words. How did you break such grave news to someone you loved so dearly? Mrs. Lynde, however, had never been at a loss for words, and she wasn't about to pick up the habit now.

"It's a bad case and you know it, Marilla. Don't you glare at me, the doctor said it was one of the worst he'd come across. Word is, Anne, he is entering the most trying phase."

This news hit Anne like a physical blow. Her knees buckled and she sank to the floor. Anne knew as well as anyone the dangers of even a moderate case of Typhoid fever. Could it really be true? Could her beloved Gil be sick—perhaps dying—at this very moment?

"We're dreadfully sorry for you to find out like this, Anne," Mrs. Lynde added. "We sent Davy to fetch you, but I'm afraid he got lost. It's not an easy place to find, you know. Heaven knows neither Marilla nor I can make the trip, and of course his parents can't leave the house at a time like this…I thought perhaps we could send—" yet for once in her life, Mrs. Lynde was unable to finish a speech she had begun. The color had drained from Anne's face, which was now a ghostly white; her eyes, however, were rimmed with red, almost painful in their contrast.

"Please Anne, don't look that way," pleaded Marilla. "There is still hope yet. The good Lord is more powerful than anything we know on this earth, always remember that."

Anne saw Marilla's mouth move, yet her words meant nothing. Her ears were ringing loudly; all speech was jumbled and shuffled in space, and by the time it reached her, it was meaningless. Anne's senses failed her—all she knew in that moment was that life as she knew it was crumbling around her, giving way to nothing but blackness.

What if the worst should happen? A world without any Gilbert in it? Anne had decided weeks ago that it simply could not be. Life without him was unimaginable. He was everything she had ever needed yet never wanted. Would he really be taken from her, just after she had finally realized how much she cared? She had chosen Gilbert to build her world around—without him she had nothing. A Gilbert-less future stared her in the face, more real than ever before, and all she wanted was to scream at the top of her lungs.

"Anne," came a voice from far away, "Anne." Yet she did not care to whom the voice belonged. She stared blankly ahead, unseeing and unhearing. _Gilbert could be dying._ That was the only thing that mattered.

Anne felt, rather than saw, someone grab her wrist and lead her back down the porch steps. She followed numbly, unaware of where she was being taken. The ground felt unsteady under her feet and the sky tipped and turned above her.

"Anne," came Paul's voice, swimming through the sea of muddled thoughts which possessed her mind, "we need to get you to Fairview."

…

Anne Shirley was a strong-minded girl. It was her level-headedness in a crisis that had saved many a Hammond baby, along with Minnie Mae Barry, as well as her own neck on many occasions. As such, by the time they arrived at Fairview, she had gathered her wits about her as much as one might hope. She was about to see Gilbert, and this gave her resolve. She would soon be at his bedside. She would be strong, as he had always been for her.

Paul drew the horse up to the verandah, and this time Anne accepted his assistance. She then climbed up the front steps and paused in front of the door.

"Take a deep breath and count to ten," she said to herself, repeating the instructions Marilla had often given her as a child whenever she was nervous or frustrated. She did this, then knocked gingerly on the door.

A few moments later, Mrs. Blythe answered it. Upon seeing Anne, she threw up her hands and let out a small cry.

"Oh Anne! Thank goodness, we were so worried. I am ever so happy to see you. Gilbert has spoken of nothing else. Maybe with you here, he'll… oh well nevermind. Come in, come in."

Anne had never seen Mrs. Blythe so disconcerted. The bright sparkle in her eyes—a trait she shared with her son—had dimmed to almost nothing. She looked tired and worn down. Little frizzes of hair peaked out from her tightly pulled bun; several strands had fallen loose entirely and hung down the back of her neck.

"I assume you've been told that Gil..." Mrs. Blythe began, yet she paused here, having trouble voicing the rest of her sentence aloud. Anne stepped forward and took Mrs. Blythe by surprise as she pulled her into a long, firm embrace. In it, she conveyed her shared grief and doubt. It was an embrace that said, _"You are no longer alone." _When Anne finally stepped back, pale face looked upon pale face and the two women locked eyes—a silent bond had been created through their shared love of the one who lay abed upstairs.

"May I see him?" Anne asked simply. Mrs. Blythe brought her hand up to Anne's chin and nodded.

"I want to prepare you, Anne," Mrs. Blythe said as the two woman ascended the stairs, "he's a bit confused and out-of-sorts. Don't let it alarm you." They had reached the bedroom door, and Anne took another deep breath. Whatever version of Gilbert she found on the other side, he was still _her_ Gilbert. And she was _his _Anne. No matter what came their way, she would take care of him.

Mrs. Blythe pushed the door open, revealing the dimly lit room beyond. She remained in the hall as she motioned for Anne to pass inside. Anne took a timid step forward and entered. To the right she saw Gilbert, his eyes closed, his face pale, lost in a perfect slumber. Next to him on a chair by the bed was a girl, fair skinned and slender, who couldn't be more than a few years older than Anne herself. The knot of hair on top of her head was a sort of sandy color—too dark to be called blonde, yet too light to be called brown. She was humming softly as she held a white towel in her hand; she was dabbing Gilbert's forehead with it, while her other hand rested just next to his arm. Were Anne in her right mind, she might have considered her to be a rather pretty girl, but her eyes were only for the boy on the bed.

The girl turned to Anne and her lips broke into a soft little smile.

"Hello, are you here to see Gilbert?" she asked in a sweet voice, which seemed almost out of place for the occasion.

"Yes..." Anne said slowly, unsure of any other possible reason for her to be standing in a sick man's bedroom.

"Well then, I'm Lydia, but you can call me Lyddie," she said, rising from her seat and placing the towel back on the washstand. "I'm here from Carmody, taking care of Gilbert. If he needs anything, you let me know."

Anne ears pricked slightly at this innocently delivered remark; she was suddenly unnerved by this strange girl who had taken charge of Gilbert's recovery—this girl, who was humming to Gilbert, and wiping his forehead in Anne's place. Her heart gave a sharp, achy twinge at the sight of it. So Gilbert was _Lyddie's_ to take care of, was he? If he needed anything, was _Lyddie _to be the first one informed, and not Anne herself? She felt like a stranger in the home of her own betrothed. This feeling was accompanied by a sense of guilt and shame—she had not been there to take care of Gilbert in his time of need, and so who was she to spurn the person who had?

Yet Anne had no room for anger or jealousy now—the important thing was that Gilbert was so well taken care of in the first place—and so she pushed the feelings aside as quickly as they had come. All she cared about was her dear Gil, laying on the bed in a stillness that was eerie in its intensity.

"Thank you, Lyddie," she said politely. Lyddie nodded, then left the room, leaving a tiny crack in the doorway.

Anne gently took the place that Lyddie had just occupied and stared into Gilbert's face. The red glow that normally braised his cheeks was absent. His skin was slightly sallow and his cheeks a bit hollow. Yet what struck Anne most were his lips—so pale they nearly blended into his face entirely. Could this truly be the Gilbert who had parted with her at the gate of Green Gables, only a week ago? He had looked positively vibrant compared to now.

Anne reached forward and grasped Gilbert's hand. She took it into both of hers and kissed it. Gilbert stirred ever-so-slightly at her touch.

"Hello, Gilbert, it's me," she said. She tried to hold her voice steady, yet it was no use. Tears began to well up in her eyes and trickle down her face. Gilbert remained still, yet his eyelids fluttered slightly—she could not tell whether they were open or closed.

"I'm here, Gil," she murmured, her voice husky as the tears caught in her throat. She wished more than anything that Gilbert would wake up, if only for a moment. She needed him to know she was here—that she had not abandoned him. She brought his hand up to her face and pressed it against her cheek. His fingers flexed slightly; she looked up and his eyelids fluttered once again. She looked into them, trying to detect a glint of hazel between his faded lids.

"Anne?"

* * *

_AN: I am blown away at the response to the last chapter. Thank you so much for the reviews! They were each appreciated greatly. Perhaps the reason I'm always a week between updates is because these chapters are so darn long. Sorry about that. Maybe for my next story I'll do shorter ones, only more of them…_


	8. Stay

_AN: I still cannot believe the response to this story! Here I was, debating on whether or not I could stand to write Gil with the fever, and thinking people wouldn't want to read something dark like that… and then you all go and flatter the socks off of me. You are all the best._

_Thanks for the reviews, but especially to everyone who gave me advice on the issue of chapter length. I am so happy to hear that you all like the longer chapters. I do too, it's such a more powerful way to set a mood and hold it. You'll just have to be patient—know that I am trying to get them to you as quickly as possible without compromising their quality (and the cleanliness of my house)! Alright, for this chapter, we will continue right where we left off..._

**Chapter 8: Stay**

**T**

Seconds earlier, Anne had wanted nothing more than for Gilbert to say something. Yet when her name left his lips, with none of the usual power nor bass, it rang as a sad, melancholy dirge in her ears. The sickness, which had been apparent in his face, was even more pronounced in his voice.

"Yes, it's your Anne," she replied, kissing the top of his hand, just as she had done a moment before. She laced her fingers through his. His fingertips curled inwards slightly, as if he were trying to return the gesture but lacked the strength to do so. Anne longed for the tension and pressure of Gilbert's hand closing on her own and holding it right back—it was an act so simple yet so achingly missed when it was absent.

Gilbert's lips turned up in a faint smile. He stared intently at Anne, blinking his eyes as if he thought she wasn't real. "I thought you wouldn't come," he said. The words, having been spoken with a great effort, came out slowly and faintly.

"I'm so sorry Gilbert," Anne said with a sniff. "I was away; I didn't realize. I never meant to abandon you so." Her words were full of remorse, so ashamed she was for not being there by Gilbert's side from the very start.

"You shouldn't have cut your trip short for me," he replied. Anne could not grow used to the way his voice seemed to struggle to leave his throat.

"But of course I should have, Gil!" Here was Gilbert, humble and selfless as always. Anne stood from her seat and grabbed one of the towels from the washstand. She wet it and resumed her post by the bed, dabbing at his head with the cool water.

"It's alright, Anne," Gilbert said quietly, focusing on Anne through half-open lids. "You don't have to pretend for me anymore." Anne gave a start at Gilbert's words. She drew back the towel and gaped at him, bewildered.

"_Pretend?_" she cried. "Whatever do you mean by _pretend?_" Never had Gilbert said anything to confuse her more than this.

"I should have listened to you… all those times you insisted you didn't care for me," Gilbert replied, his soft breaths becoming heavier. He paused for a moment, gathering the strength to finish his thought. Anne had fallen speechless and was forced to wait for him to continue. "You must have felt I gave you no choice. I'd never want to make you feel obligated."

Anne was completely taken aback. How could Gilbert possibly believe she did not care? A week before, he had seemed so sure of her feelings. Could he really not have heard the pounding of her heart each time he drew near, or felt the blood rushing forcefully through her veins when his breath brushed her face? Did he not hear the way she gasped each time he touched her?

"Gilbert, the very last thing I feel toward you is obligated," Anne insisted, her voice beginning to crack. "I love you, Gil! Surely you must know that."

Perhaps the hardest part about Gilbert's sickly face was how expressionless it was—Anne could not read it for anything.

"Maybe you think you love me… but, truth is... I tricked you, Anne," Gilbert said, pausing after each few words to catch his breath. "I should never have kissed you that day, in the park. You were confused… vulnerable… I was out of line—"

"Gilbert Blythe, whoever put such a thought into your head?" Anne exclaimed. She was crying freely now, her cheeks glistened every bit as much as Gilbert's sweat-laden forehead. "Yes, I was confused, for all my life… until _now_, Gil! Until my eyes were opened and everything became so completely, utterly clear. I was the one who was out of line." Anne looked with determination into Gilbert's eyes—if her words would not do her justice, she hoped he would see the truth written on her face.

"It's alright, Anne. I understand now."

"No!" Anne wailed, her chest beginning to tighten until she felt it might collapse in upon itself, "you _don't_ understand, Gilbert!" Her heart had ached upon finding out Gilbert was ill, but now it nearly tore right open. The idea that Gilbert would feel so unloved, and still worse, the notion that she had ever given him a reason to doubt her—was unbearable. Her head fell downward; she pressed her forehead into the mattress, right by Gilbert's chest. "I love you, Gil," she sobbed. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

"Mmmm… maybe so," Gilbert replied faintly. "Can you ask Lyddie to bring me a sip of water?"

"I can get it for you, Gilbert," Anne said huskily as she quickly grabbed the cup from Gilbert's nightstand and brought it to his lips. Her hands were shaking and she tried to steady them.

"No good," he said. "'Fraid I'm quite weak, you need to tilt my head up… Lyddie can show you."

Anne ignored the implications of this latest statement as she gently placed one hand behind Gilbert's head, while the other tipped the liquid into his mouth. He took a smaller sip than Anne had anticipated—he choked slightly and the excess water poured down the sides of his chin.

"My goodness, I'm so sorry, Gil," Anne said, cursing herself for making such a simple error. Anne had taken care of her share of sick children in her lifetime… how could she make such an elementary mistake as to pour too much water down Gilbert's throat?

"Thank you, Anne… sorry, can't take much at once... Lyddie knows," Gilbert rasped. The words bit like a bee sting. Yes, _Lyddie_ did know, didn't she? There was no doubt in Gilbert's mind that _Lyddie _knew how to take care of him. _Anne_, however, apparently did not. If only he knew the pain he caused her, each time he implied this with his innocently delivered remarks! Anne immediately scolded herself once again for thinking of her own suffering when Gilbert was the one with the fever-riddled mind and body. How could she be so selfish?

Anne placed the cup back on the nightstand and turned to look back at Gilbert, only to find that his eyes were once again closed. The room was soon filled with the faint whisper of his steady breathing. Anne gazed at his face for several minutes—at this person who was still her Gilbert, yet looked and spoke like a mere version of him, born out of a nightmare. She wondered what version of her had crept into his dreams, and wished desperately that she could order it to poison his thoughts no longer.

Yet causing her more pain than Gilbert's words of uncertainty was the thought that all falsehoods, whether justified or not, are not born without the tiniest seed of reason.

...

Whenever Anne bore a heavy mind or a tangled mess of thoughts which demanded her attention, she was known to seek solitude out of doors rather than in. Somehow her mind felt clearer when she was surrounded by nature—the rawness and organicness of it made things feel much more simple. And so it was outside that she fled when the feelings of confusion and grief became too much for her mind and heart to bear.

Anne found the garden at Fairview beautiful in its modesty. Roses lined the verandah, giving way to a wide lawn. A gorgeous grove of leafy green maples overhung it on one side; on the other, not fifty yards from the house, stood a grand beech tree. It's thick boughs arched gracefully outwards, creating a perfect umbrella over the grass below. A stone bench stood in the shade of the tree, over which hung two faded blue birdhouses. Anne perched herself here now, her eyes closed, yet her mind very much awake.

Whatever she had expected of Gilbert when she arrived that morning, it was not this. She had expected him to feel relieved and comforted upon seeing her face—his Anne was here with him to help drive the pain away. Yet all she had found in his words was uncertainty. Her heart broke at the thought that Gilbert might ever question her love for him. She cared about him more than anyone in the world—how could he not know that?

Anne brought her legs up against her chest and hugged them to her body. She cradled her face in her knees, and the tears which stubbornly persisted in escaping her eyes left hot tracks as they slid down her skin.

It was this small, heartbroken Anne that Laura Blythe found, as she came outside to hang up the washing she had been neglecting—or more, had been putting off until Mary Maria's departure, so as not to give her the satisfaction. But Mary Maria had left, finally, at Mrs. Blythe's sly mentioning of the contagious nature of Typhoid fever. And so Laura had just slung the first of her husband's denim overalls over the line when she spied Anne's huddled form under the tree below. Mrs. Blythe's heart went out to the girl; she shared in her pain and so she felt compelled to also share what little comfort she could provide, even if only a pair of listening ears.

Anne did not hear Mrs. Blythe's soft footsteps upon the grass, being so caught up in her own somber thoughts. It was only when Mrs. Blythe sat next to her that Anne noticed her presence. She did not look at Anne, but rather rested her back against the hard stone, gazing up at the house. Anne hated to have Mrs. Blythe see her this way. She hastily tried to wipe her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt, but it was of no use.

"Don't you worry, Anne. I've had many a solitary cry in recent days. It's nothing to be ashamed of," Mrs. Blythe said simply, still gazing at a certain upstairs window. Anne was very thankful for the way Gilbert's mother made so little of her crying. And even more, Mrs. Blythe had admitted her own vulnerability, which comforted Anne greatly. She had never known Mrs. Blythe very well—likely due to the fact that she was more reserved and less of a gossip than the rest of the Avonlea women—and Anne grew sorry for it. There was something about her—an air of acceptance and a calm sort of strength—which Anne greatly admired.

"Gilbert built those, did you know?" Mrs. Blythe said, motioning to the tiny houses hanging above them. They swung slightly, surrendering themselves to a soft breeze. At first appearance they seemed quite simple, however as Anne continued to stare at them, she noticed the way the wooden pieces notched into each other as they met at each corner, as well as the perfectly overlapped wooden shingles slanting up the roof.

"He got the idea for it several springs ago," Mrs. Blythe continued. "A storm had come through, with lots of wind and the like, and he found a nest that had fallen from this very tree. I wouldn't think him so poetic as to take sympathy for the poor things, wherever they had flown off to, but somehow it put the idea in his head, and a week later..." Mrs. Blythe gestured at the houses again.

"They're beautiful," Anne said, wiping her nose, which was already very red and raw. She had never known that Gilbert could work wood until recently, when he had given her that beautifully carved wooden horse after Convocation, which now stood proudly on her dressing table. She couldn't help but wonder if Gilbert would ever again exercise this small, secret gift. Would his hands ever splinter along the rough edges of a piece of wood, and in return widdle it into submission? She let out a small, involuntary sob. Mrs. Blythe put a hand on Anne's shoulder and squeezed it.

"Sometimes I find it easier if I say my thoughts out loud," Mrs. Blythe suggested gently. Anne looked down at her knees and remained silent, wondering how in the world she could form her thoughts into intelligible speech.

For a few moments, nothing could be heard but the wind blowing causally through the leaves of the great tree. Seeing that Anne was not ready to speak, Mrs. Blythe continued. "I, for one, am scared half to death," she said. Her words seemed to echo through the air, so unexpected and _real_ they were. Anne was surprised at Mrs. Blythe's openness. "And I am ashamed of my worry," she went on, "because shouldn't I have faith he will pull through? What kind of mother am I, to even dare to imagine the possibility that Gilbert might _not_ win this fight?"

Mrs. Blythe leaned down and put her face in her hands, smoothing out the wrinkles in her temples with her fingertips. Anne did not know what to say. Here was Gilbert's mother, who tried to appear so strong, yet was battling with a shade of grief not unlike Anne's own.

"I am heartbroken all over again each time I see my son asleep upstairs. I tell myself that he is strong yet inside I am terrified of losing him," Mrs. Blythe finished. When she looked back up at Anne, her eyes were glistening from unshod tears. She gave Anne a meek grin, in acknowledgement of her own nakedness. Her eyes crinkled at the sides as she did so. "Now you."

Anne swallowed and gathered her thoughts. Mrs. Blythe had done a bold thing in exposing herself to Anne the way she did. She was reminded that although she and Mrs. Blythe loved Gilbert in very different ways, their heartache and fear were still very much the same. They were in this together, the two of them, and if Mrs. Blythe had been so open and honest, surely Anne could, too. Yet Anne was also experiencing another, uglier sentiment, which was all her own. Could she really admit it to Gilbert's mother?

"I feel about the same," said Anne quietly, although unable to look Mrs. Blythe in the face. She took a deep breath, before gathering her courage and voicing the one thought which had been gnawing most at her heart. "And I also feel guilty… guilty that I was not here… guilty for leaving him even though the signs were there. But most of all, I feel guilty because…. well, because…" Anne choked here, as the secret source of shame she harbored deep down began to surface. How could she explain it to Gilbert's own mother? Mrs. Blythe would hate her if she knew.

"It's all my fault, Mrs. Blythe!" Anne blurted out, before she could stop herself. Mrs. Blythe's eyes widened at Anne's bold proclamation.

"Nonsense, Anne. An illness like this is no one's fault—"

"But it is! Don't you remember how tired Gilbert looked when he returned from Redmond? He was exhausted, and his health was poor—"

"He had a difficult term, Anne," Mrs. Blythe interrupted. "It's no easy feat to win the Cooper." Mrs. Blythe was clearly trying to convince Anne of her innocence, but she would not be rid of her blame so easily.

"He didn't mean to win the Cooper! Did he ever tell you that?" Anne asked. Mrs. Blythe raised her eyebrows skeptically. "He only studied as much as he did because he… well because he was trying not to think of me. He told me so. I was so cruel to him, Mrs. Blythe. I loved him all along yet I was too stubborn and thick-headed to admit it, and the only person who suffered for my foolishness, in the end, was Gilbert. He fell ill because his health was already poor, and his health was poor because of me." Anne felt she might cry again, so engrossed she was in her self-loathing. The truth was out, and Anne felt certain her words would cause Mrs. Blythe to throw her out of Fairview in an instant. Mrs. Blythe, however, merely shook her head.

"Anne, Gilbert caught Typhoid fever because Providence meant him to catch it. Even a healthy body will have great difficulty resisting such an infection, once transmitted," she replied. Anne was surprised at Mrs. Blythe's offering of reassurance. Her own logic seemed infallible—why was Gilbert's mother refusing to see the truth? Well even if Mrs. Blythe didn't believe her, there was someone else who did.

"Gilbert knows it, too," Anne said quietly, choosing to ignore Mrs. Blythe's weak attempt to comfort her. Mrs. Blythe cocked her head here, puzzled once again by Anne's declaration. "He thinks I don't love him, did you know that? He told me so, up there." Anne gestured towards the house. "He told me to stop… _pretending_."

A look of compassion spread throughout Mrs. Blythe's features. "Oh, you poor thing," she said, as she leaned in to place an arm around Anne's shoulder. Anne allowed her to do so, although she did not feel she deserved any comfort from Gilbert's mother, of all people.

"He knows, deep down, that it's my fault… for how could I love him, yet cause him this pain?" Anne asked. Her tears, which had only subsided several minutes before, began to well up once more in her eyes. Mrs. Blythe's eyes were watering too, although this time not for Gilbert, but for Anne—Anne, and the terrible, unnecessary burden she carried upon her shoulders.

"Oh Anne," Mrs. Blythe said. "Don't you remember? I told you he was confused. He's delirious, that's what this wicked disease does. It's only a product of his subconscious, Anne—"

"But that's just it, isn't it?" Anne interrupted. "Sure, I show him outwardly that I love him. Yet underneath it all, he thinks I'm pretending! He thinks that because deep down, in his subconscious, he _doubts_ me."

"Anne, Gilbert could never doubt—"

"But couldn't he? _Shouldn't _he? For eleven years, I snubbed him. Half of that time was spent merely trying to gain my friendship! And then, farther along, when he tried to gain my love, I refused him again. I told him over and over that I did not desire any more than friendship from him. I was stubborn and stupid and I hurt him, over and over and over again. I'm afraid I've caused him far more pain than pleasure, Mrs. Blythe, and he knows that."

Anne could not bear to look at Mrs. Blythe now, she was so ashamed. Yet as hard as it had been to voice her deepest concerns aloud, somehow she found it very relieving to know they were out in the open. Now Mrs. Blythe would see her for what she truly was—unworthy.

"You may be right, Anne," Mrs. Blythe said softly. "Perhaps he does harbor a bit of doubt, deep down." She paused for a moment and brought a hand to Anne's cheek. "But do not do Gilbert the discredit of assuming he thinks more soundly when his brain is addled with fever, than when he is well." Mrs. Blythe's words, meant kindly, stung Anne all the more with their veracity.

"Gilbert knows you love him, despite it all," Mrs. Blythe continued. "And please, do not cheapen his judgment by implying that he would spend so many years of his life fighting for something that consistently caused him more pain than joy. He is smarter and stronger than that. And I think, Anne, that you've done Gilbert far more good than you know."

Anne was now confused beyond belief. Mrs. Blythe's words seemed so sound—so logical. Yet her desire to accept those words conflicted with Anne's own conviction that she was to blame for Gilbert's illness. She _had_ caused him pain, on many occasions. Even Gilbert could not deny that. Yet could Gilbert, who was more intelligent and level-headed than anyone she knew, really fool himself into believing her love was a lie? Gil, with his keen perception, and the way he knew Anne so well—better than anybody else—would have known better. He knew she loved him—he must.

Mrs. Blythe pulled Anne into a hug now; Anne felt the tightness in her chest and the burning heat of her guilt begin to dissipate. She still had much to feel shameful for, but perhaps things were not as bad as they had seemed. Mrs. Blythe released Anne and looked at her tenderly.

"Whatever Gilbert might say or do in the fog of his illness, what he needs now is his Anne. There are no doubts which have overcome his mind that cannot be driven out. So drive them out. Stay." Mrs. Blythe brought her thumb up to Anne's cheek and wiped away a fresh tear. "He needs a reason to _fight_, Anne. I wish I could be that reason, but his time of being coddled and cared for by his mother is gone. You, my dear, need to take up the mantle now. So please, do what I can't. Give him a reason to stay."

…

Anne peered through the crack in Gilbert's bedroom door and lightly tapped it open. Inside she saw Lyddie, who was fitting a shirt over the top of Gilbert's head. She had secured it over his torso, and was now pulling his arms up through the sleeves.

"Here we go, Gilbert, can you extend your elbow a bit? Oh well never mind, I've got it now. And now the other one… there we are, you're getting good at that," she said satisfactorily. She then ran her fingers down Gilbert's chest as she straightened the shirt over him. Next she smoothed it over his hips, where it had been bunched up between his body and the mattress. Lyddie's touches were meant innocently, yet they made Anne uncomfortable. Here was this strange woman, touching Gilbert's skin and changing his clothes—an intimate act under any other circumstances.

"All changed now," Lyddie said in her musical voice. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"Thank you, Lyddie," Gilbert said with the weakest of grins. "Feels much better..."

Anne could not help but feel unnerved by the way Gilbert had smiled and thanked Lyddie. Here was _her_ boy, being taken care of by someone else. Anne wanted to be the one to change him, and feed him, and give him whatever else he needed. Yet once again, she had not been there to do so. Instead of remaining by Gilbert's side, she had spent the last hour out in the garden, selfishly caught up in her own distress. Anne made up her mind right then and there to never quit Gilbert's room again if she could help it. She wanted to take care of him, and take care of him she would.

"Now, let me just change out your pillow," Lyddie continued. She brought her arm behind Gilbert's shoulder and tipped his body forward as she swapped his pillow for a fresh one. It was then that she noticed Anne in the doorway.

"Oh, hello there. _Anne,_ is it?" she said sweetly. Anne merely nodded. She hoped her irritation was not apparent in her face. "I only assumed so, Gilbert's been talking about you a bit," she said. Anne immediately wondered what sorts of things Gilbert could have been telling this Lyddie about her, and whether they had been good or bad. Lyddie saw the quizzical look in Anne's eyes and added, reassuringly, "nothing much, of course… just mutterings, mainly. You must be very important to him."

Anne decided that the problem with Lyddie was that she was very difficult to dislike. Perhaps her only failing was that she seemed almost too sweet and cheerful for the dark, stuffy room. Yet Anne did not believe her to be insensitive to Gilbert's condition—Lyddie merely seemed to be one of those people who was always happy with everything and everyone.

"Can I help with anything?" Anne asked, hoping there was at least something she could do.

"I think I've got it all taken care of," Lyddie said confidently. "He seems to like it when I sing to him, though. You might try that. And I've read him a bit out of some of those books on the desk. It seems to relax him a bit," she added. Again, Anne felt the pain of the idea that Lyddie knew more about taking care of Gilbert than she did.

"Thank you, Lyddie. I'll try," Anne said, keeping her voice as even as possible. Lyddie gave Anne a nod and left the room. Anne took several short steps and poked her head out into the hall.

"Lyddie?" Anne asked. Lyddie stopped as she reached the stairs and turned back to look at her. "Is it as bad as he says it is?"

"I'm sorry?" said Lyddie, confused.

"The doctor... I spoke with him as he was leaving earlier today," Anne said. "He said Gilbert is worse off than he was even yesterday. He said his chances are… are…" Anne choked here, trying as hard as she could not to cry in front of Lyddie, "less than ideal. I just thought, with you having nursed so many others..." Anne looked into Lyddie's round sea green eyes, hoping she might say something to contradict the doctor.

"Well, I really can't say, Anne," Lyddie said hesitantly. "I myself find that it depends on the patient. I think, in the end, it comes down to Gilbert."

Anne nodded quietly and, realizing Lyddie had no more consolation to offer, pulled the door closed behind her and turned back to Gilbert. She was surprised to find he was already looking up at her.

"Your voice…" he said, his lips curled into a small smile. "I'd forgotten…"

Anne immediately swept to Gilbert's bed and knelt down next to it. She brushed a moistened curl out of his forehead.

"I thought you'd gone," Gilbert said. His face was sickly and pale, yet he still fixed her with the same adoring look he always gave her.

"Never, Gil," Anne said, running his hair through her fingertips. Gil's eyes turned upwards and he closed them, giving out a contented sigh.

"I'm glad you're here, Anne," Gilbert said, sliding his hand an inch towards hers. She stroked his arm with her fingertips.

"There's no place I'd rather be, Gil," Anne said, hoping beyond hope that he could discern the truth in her voice.

"Just know you don't have to stay," Gilbert said, still gazing at her tenderly. It was clear he did not wish her to go.

"I'd never dream of leaving. You're my everything, Gil. Please believe me," Anne said. She looked deep into his eyes, wanting him to see how much she meant it.

"I don't know what to believe anymore," Gilbert said faintly. "It's all so… confusing. Even when I am awake… it feels like a dream. Tell me, am I dreaming now, Anne?"

"No, Gilbert," Anne said with a shake of her head. She planted a kiss lightly on his cheek; his skin burned against her lips.

"Definitely dreaming," he said with another of his faint smiles. Anne looked into Gilbert's face—the face of the boy whom she had treated so cruelly on their first meeting, the boy whom she had rejected time and time again, the boy who had loved her despite it all. She hated that she had caused him pain, and his illness was the ultimate culmination of it all. She needed him to know how sorry she was for everything. But most of all, she needed him to know that she loved him. She would tell him, every minute, and in every way possible, until he believed her.

"Gilbert, I know I hurt you in the past," Anne said, taking his hand and squeezing it, "and you have every right to doubt me. I deserve to be doubted. I've been stubborn and foolish; I've been unfeeling and insensitive. But one thing I have never been, Gilbert, is dishonest. You must do me this small credit." Anne tried to read Gilbert's face for any sign that he believed her words, yet it was expressionless in its sickliness.

"Maybe so, Anne. Or maybe you've fooled yourself as well as me," Gilbert said. Anne shook her head in response to his reply.

"I love you, Gilbert, and no matter what you say, I'm going to stay with you. The question is, are you going to stay with me?" Gilbert continued to hold his gaze into Anne's eyes, as if he were trying to ingrain her picture into his memory.

"If that is what you want, Anne, I'll try."

* * *

_AN: A special thank you to the wonderfully talented Katherine-with-a-K, whose idea of the addition of Mary Maria in chapter 5 (haven't decided if she is still around) gave me that little bit of spark and direction I needed to get me out of my rut and this story back on its feet after my absence... and also for a bit of direction on how to go about creating Lyddie, who I was struggling with._

_I know that some of you are wondering about Anne being in Gil's bedroom, and the contagiousness of his disease. Yes, Typhoid is highly contagious. However, it is not contracted through saliva._ _For how it is contracted… well… I'll let you look that up for yourself ;)_


	9. Full Circle

**Chapter 9: Full Circle**

T

Gilbert tugged persistently at a knot in his bedclothes. He had no idea how such a knot could have manifested itself there, but there it was, and he was determined to make it go away. He twiddled with it weakly, but his fingers lacked the strength to pull it free. After a while, he grew very frustrated. He grunted and ground his teeth together in irritation. It was only then that he noticed a second tangle, a few inches from the first, and then a third. He began to grow desperate; he tossed and turned as he worked at the small masses until his fingers grew numb. He was so absorbed in the task before him that he did not hear the bedroom door creak open.

"Gilbert!" exclaimed a female voice, more familiar and satisfying than any other in the world. It was a voice he would never forget, despite the blurred memories and confused dreams that now seemed to underline his very existence. "Gilbert, whatever are you doing?" Her tone was reminiscent of a mother speaking gently to a small child.

"It's these… infernal bedclothes," Gilbert replied weakly, glancing over at the newcomer. There was Anne, radiant as ever, her hair a dark auburn in the shadows cast by the bedroom curtains, and her eyes the deepest of grays. "They keep knotting themselves. I can't figure out why…"

"Gilbert," Anne said calmly, yet not without concern, as she approached his bedside. "There are no knots in your bedclothes." No knots in his bedclothes! Perhaps her eyes had not quite adjusted to the dimness of the room. Of course the knots were there—plain as day.

"See here, Anne. I have to… get them… out," Gilbert said, pulling at the sheets the way a child might tug fruitlessly on a fisherman's knot. Anne sat on the bed next to him and steadied his hands with her own. Her skin felt remarkably cool against his; his hands tingled at her touch in the same way they always had, and likely always would.

"Stop, Gil. _Stop,_" she insisted. Knowing it would be fruitless to resist, Gilbert relaxed into submission. "Remember what I told you before. You have to trust me. Now do you?"

Gilbert glanced once again at the tiny protrusions around him—no longer were there only three, but half a dozen. He then looked into Anne's face—her jaw set, her large eyes imploring. He had been told time and time again that he was not in his right mind, and he wanted to believe it; it would explain away the nightmares and muddled thoughts, and the way his memories seemed to escape him like tiny wisps of cloud. Yet to believe you are not thinking clearly is no easy task when your thoughts are all you have as reality.

"Alright, Anne," Gilbert sighed, although to little effect—all of his words seemed to come out like sighs anyway. "But can you open the window? Feels stuffy..."

"The window is already open, Gil. Don't you see the curtains swaying in the breeze?" Gilbert looked over at the curtains. They seemed perfectly stationary to him. He decided to ignore this, knowing the fuss it would cause if he contradicted her.

"The door, then?"

"Also open."

"Right then," said Gilbert, although his furrowed brow gave his skepticism away.

"Just don't look at the sheets, or the doors, or the windows," Anne suggested, squeezing his hand more tightly and leaning in closer to the bed. "Look at me, instead."

"Alright, Anne," Gilbert replied, as he took one last look at the sheets and focused his eyes upon her. There were many things Gilbert had forgotten in recent days, but he would never fail to recollect that face—her hair the color of an autumn sunset, contrasting beautifully with skin so milky white it nearly glowed like the moonlight which followed faithfully, would be ingrained in his mind in both this life and the next. Anne's face was beyond memory—it was a part of his soul.

He remembered when she had first appeared at his bedside, four days ago—or had it been five? He had heard her voice calling his name through the shadow, like a firm hand pulling him out of the prison of his mind. This had not been the cold voice tinged with menace which so often frequented his dreams; this was the clear, perfect version of old, each note ringing like a separate bell in a beautiful composition. He had opened his eyes just barely, and there she had been, a vision of loveliness before him, her eyes rimmed with red and her cheeks glistening with tears.

Gilbert had been taken by such surprise that he had closed his eyes again, assuming he was lost in yet another of his strange dreams. Yet when he had allowed his lids to flutter once more, there she was still. An intrinsic happiness had spread through him in that moment—she had not deserted him after all. His Anne was here. Yet his feelings of relief had also been tainted with the sickening realization that perhaps Anne was not _his_ at all. He had thought she was, not long before, yet his illness had afforded him time to think, and the more he thought, the more he realized that Anne could never love him—not in the way he desired.

As the days had passed, Gilbert could not help but wonder why Anne did not go. All of the terrible things he had done to her had replayed themselves over and over in his mind… all the twisted, manipulative words, along with the way he had pursued her ceaselessly, never taking her refusals seriously, and still worse—the stolen kiss that would haunt him forever, as a ghost unseen yet felt all the more keenly. Yet despite the feelings of guilt and uncertainty, Gilbert was thankful for Anne's presence. She had stayed tirelessly by his side, and he did not know if he could make it through another day, if she were to leave him.

As time went by, his thoughts had grown even more disjointed—his dreams more terrifying and frequent. Gilbert was beginning to have trouble discerning dreams from reality, so effortlessly he slipped between the two. Even his own memories alluded him. Had Anne gotten top marks in the Queens entrance exams, or had he? Had he accompanied her to the Convocation dance last spring? He thought he had surely held that honor, yet he vaguely remembered something about Christine… and what had Anne recited, that day at Miss Stacy's Christmas Concert? Had it been Neruda, or Noyes? No, it must have been Poe. Or else how would those words now be entering his mind, covering him in darkness?

_Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,_

_It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore -_

_Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?'_

_Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'*_

The words swirled around his head and overwhelmed him… He was in a dark, dreary room; nothing more than dying embers lay on the hearth. A sharp t_ap, tap, tap, _echoed through the air. He ignored it, yet it persisted. _Tap, tap, tap._ He could not stand it another minute; he had to know what lay beyond the door. Full of fear he crossed to it; taking a deep breath he pulled it open. There was his Anne, eyes like coal and hair as dark as ebony, with a circlet of inky feathers in her hair. She opened her mouth and said, over and over again, "Nevermore, nevermore, nevermore."

"Nevermore," Gilbert nodded, as she held him captive with her stare.

… … ...

"Nevermore, nevermore." The words left Gilbert's lips as soft murmurs, barely discernible in their subtlety.

"Gilbert," Anne soothed, as she knelt next to him and moved her hands to his arms, holding them steady as they twitched and shook at his sides. Gilbert's struggles subsided and his eyelids quivered. She saw him looking up at her from beneath them. Minutes before, he had sighed in the comfort of her voice, only to fall captive to yet another dream. The increasing ease with which his dreams overtook him frightened her.

"I'm right here, Gilbert. Set your nightmares free, and do not dwell on them," Anne sang into the darkness. "Focus on me, Gil," she pleaded. She watched as Gilbert used all his strength to fix his stare upon her. His pupils widened slightly as he drew her into focus; he seemed to cling to her vision as a rock in an ocean storm.

"There you are," she smiled.

"Thank you, Anne," Gilbert said in a hoarse whisper.

"Don't give in to the darkness, Gil. Shut it out as best you can."

"'Fraid I can't tell the difference anymore." Anne grew frightened at the tone of defeat in his voice. His words made her heart break—she wished she could take away his pain. Did he know how gladly she would take his place? She met Gilbert's gaze; for several moments a perfect silence hung in the thick air.

Just then, the door was pushed open and Anne gave a small start. Lyddie came into the room with a clean white linen shirt and knee-length pants. Without a word, Anne immediately stood up and leaned over Gilbert, working at the buttons of his clothing. Anne had made it clear to Lyddie in recent days that she wanted to lend a hand whenever possible, and so the two women had worked out a system of changing Gilbert that made the whole process go much more smoothly and quickly.

Anne thought back to the first time she had helped change Gilbert's shirt, a few days before. Lyddie had unfastened the buttons as Anne waited with the fresh shirt in her hands, feeling very awkward yet expectant—it felt improper to be seeing Gilbert's bare skin now, yet not a word had been raised against her doing so. "Propriety" had a very jumbled meaning in light of the circumstances, and Anne was not one to sit idle while someone else tended the sick, especially when that person was Gilbert.

Many times before, when Gilbert was well, Anne had peered at his shirt as though hoping to see right through it. His clothes had been roomier as of late, yet she had still seen the way the fabric stretched over the muscles in his arms and chest as he moved in certain ways. She had traced the outline of his form with her eyes and, with a distinct hint of scarlet staining her cheeks, imagined what it might look like to take in his bare body one day.

And so as Anne had watched Lyddie remove Gilbert's shirt for the first time, she had stared, transfixed—excited yet frightened at the same time, unsure of what to expect. She had given a small, inaudible gasp as Lyddie undid the last button and tugged the fabric from Gilbert's shoulders. As Anne beheld Gilbert's chest, years sooner and under very different circumstances than she had expected, it had not been strong and defined as she had always imagined. There was no power behind that sallow skin, but rather tired, withering muscles. Could these be the arms that wrapped her up and held her firmly next to his body? Could this be the chest she had nestled into on lazy days by the lake, or on the train to Phil's wedding? This surely could not be Gilbert's chest, and arms, and shoulders, but rather those of some lesser, weaker man. His body seemed defeated and frail, a mere memory of what it had once been—or at least, what she had pictured it to be. She felt that if she should lay her head upon him now, he would deflate like a balloon.

Anne was not sure exactly how she felt in that moment—grieved, perhaps; disappointed, maybe; but mostly she felt very, very foolish.

It was then that she had recalled her conversation with Phil in the bedroom of Mount Holly—the one that had sent a tingle down her spine and thrown her future with Gilbert into an unexpected, yet dare she admit it—enticing—uncertainty. "_When two people love each other… they find that as time goes by, the more they_ give_, the more they want to _take_." _Anne laughed now when she thought of the alarm Phil's scandalous words had caused. To think that a few weeks ago, her biggest worry had been that she might take in too much of Gilbert's body, too soon! She had feared she might lose herself to his touch, and wear down the boundaries between them into nonexistence. She had laid up at night simply thinking it all over—wondering if it could really be as Phil said; could she lose herself in a moment of passion and tie herself to Gilbert in ways unfitting for before their marriage?

She was ashamed of her foolishness now, yet she also grieved her loss. The concept of two lovers, exploring a whole new world of love and belonging and _each other_, once they became man and wife, began to feel foreign to her, as she looked at the body of the boy on the bed and wondered if it might be taken from her so soon. Never would her hurried fingers fumble with those shirt buttons as she struggled to work them free, while he urged her onward through hot breaths in her ear, his lips caressing her neck and driving her wild. Never would she run her fingers along the outline of his chest, or kiss him along the line of his breastbone as the muscles of his arms rippled under her grip. And if the temptation should really be as Phil said, never would she need to cry out, "_Stop Gil, this is too far—too much."_ How naive and trivial her worries had been then! Gilbert would go out of this world and she would lose his body, yet worse still, his mind—his mischievous smile and clever puns, his adoring words and touches, his tireless debates on philosophy and religion and all other manners of things.

"Anne?" Lyddie said, placing a hand on her shoulder. Anne started and looked around. There she was, working at shirt buttons, the same as in her fantasies, only the boy wearing that shirt was motionless in sleep. Lyddie was standing next to her, holding the change of clothes, while in the meantime, Anne had been absent-mindedly fingering at the fastenings of the ones still upon him.

"I can get it, if you like," Lyddie offered, reaching for the button Anne had been tugging at.

"I've got it!" Anne cried quickly. She worked the button free, preparing herself to see the pale, diseased skin she had grown accustomed to, as opposed to the healthy, powerful build of her imagination. Yet as the fabric fell away, Anne let out a gasp. She frantically tore at the rest of the buttons until Gilbert's entire chest was exposed. She brought a hand to her mouth as she took them in—hundreds of tiny red dots, like insect bites, covering every square inch of his ribs and stomach.

"Lyddie!" she cried, burying her face in her shoulder, and trying to ignore the fact that Lyddie smelled like lavender and rose water. Lyddie leaned in and examined Gilbert for a moment, then patted Anne on the arm.

"That can happen sometimes," she said reassuringly. "It only means he's near the end—" The rest of her words were lost as a terrified cry escaped Anne's lips.

"The _end?_" Anne managed to utter. Her hands began to shake and she grew dizzy. Lyddie leaned forward to steady her, helping her into a chair.

"Good heavens, I'm sorry, I misspoke," she said hastily. "I only meant that he's nearing the _turning point_. We're well into the third week, you see. Let me 'phone the doctor. He really should be here by now, and also he can explain…" and with that Lyddie backed out of the room. Anne heard her hurried steps down the stairs.

Anne turned back to Gilbert. She leaned forward, laying her head next to his shoulder, and soaked the mattress with her tears.

… … …

The atmosphere in the living room of Fairview was uncomfortable, to say the least. Three worried faces stared eagerly into a somber one, waiting. On the sofa sat Mr. Blythe, along with Mrs. Blythe, who held a handkerchief in one hand, while the other hand was steadied by her husband's. In a chair next to them sat Anne, her elbows on her knees and her hands pressed together as if in prayer, her chin resting atop the tips of her fingers. The doctor stared down at them, choosing his words carefully.

"A maculopapular rash is not necessarily out of the ordinary—it tells us nothing of the gravity of Gilbert's case. But what it does tell us is that the disease has progressed into its final and most serious phase. What concerns me most is his fever. It is the highest I have seen it, and his body will not be able to sustain it much longer—not even through the night, I'm afraid." He waited a moment before speaking again, which Anne felt rather cruel. A louder silence, she could not remember; the ringing in her ears was surely heard by all. "Honesty is my policy, as you well know, Mr. and Mrs. Blythe. The night will decide, one way or the other, the fate of your son. I do not believe it unwise to hope, but I implore you to pray. And most importantly, you must also prepare yourselves."

No one spoke now—the doctor's words seemed to echo mercilessly around the room, rather than kindly making their escape through some blessed door or window. Mrs. Blythe said nothing, but merely allowed her face to fall into her hands, while her husband gently rubbed her back. Anne sat motionless, feeling completely alone. She felt miles away from the two figures who held each other on the sofa; the one who should comfort her in times of loss and pain was the one who lay upstairs, unable to do so. She glanced over at Gilbert's parents; she saw the grief fill them up until it overflowed. Mrs. Blythe's body shook against her husband's. "_Not again," _Anne thought she heard her murmur, although the words were too broken to be sure.

Yet amidst the sobs and shudders, Mrs. Blythe did something else which surprised Anne very much—she extended an arm in her direction. "Come," she mouthed. And so, numbly, Anne rose. She took several uneven steps to the sofa and curled herself up next to Mrs. Blythe like a small child. Mrs. Blythe stroked her hair and said, in a voice choked with tears, "There there, my daughter. There, there."

And Anne, who had never known her mother, thanked God above for Mrs. Blythe, and for Marilla as well—for the angels he had sent from above to fill that void in her life.

Anne allowed Mr. and Mrs. Blythe to enter Gilbert's room first; she waited in the hall so they might have a few words alone with him. She sat on the floor with her back against the wall, gripping a mug of tea which Lyddie had forced into her hands. Her chest was sore from weeping yet she did not care. She welcomed the tears as they flooded down her face and neck. The knowledge that this could be her last night with Gilbert tore at her heart like nothing before. He was here now, only a few feet from her, so real and concrete. But what of tomorrow? Would he be here still? Would the blood still flow weakly through his veins; would the breath still leave his lips in soft puffs? Why, oh why had she taken him for granted for so many years? She wished she could go back in time, rewriting all her memories and filling them with the love Gilbert deserved, while savoring the assurance of _tomorrows._

What would she do if he left her now? Could she really face this life alone? She would never love again—she was sure of that. That place in her heart was reserved for Gilbert and Gilbert alone. She closed her eyes and saw a vision of herself, old and withered, her snow-white hair stood out against the robes of black she wore. She peered out through the black lace which hung from her hat, kneeling by a grave now overgrown after countless springs. She nestled into the headstone, her fingers tracing the engraving there, while her tears watered the grass.

And in the hallway, Anne wept. She wept for Gilbert, but also for herself, as her own future stared her in the face, nothing but a wall of blackness. She raised a prayer up into the heavens—that if God might take Gilbert from this life, let him take her, too.

… … ...

Even after Gilbert's parents left his room, he could not shake the image of their faces—the way they had looked at him with such intensity, as if to hold him there, lest he vanish before their eyes. And still worse were their voices—each word dripped with pain and fear. The odd looks, the sentimental words, the recollections of memories long ago—Gilbert thought that perhaps he knew what it all meant. For several days, he had suspected it, yet he had never really _known_ it until he read it in his father's waning voice, and in his mother's agonized stare. Was it possible, could it be? His question was answered for him almost immediately, as Anne's face now appeared in the doorway.

The look she fixed upon him now was like nothing Gilbert had seen before. She was peering at him intently, yet queerly. She looked like a ghost—her skin was pasty and translucent, while her eyes were open wide, the powerful tempest raging within her reflected itself back at him from their gray depths. So it was true. He was dying. _He was dying._ His body was giving up on him, as well as his mind, and everybody knew it, including himself. Yet Gilbert did not feel fear, the way he might have imagined. Rather, all he wanted in that moment was to wrap Anne up in his arms and comfort her.

"It's okay, Anne... I know." The words exited his mouth so softly that he wondered if Anne had heard him at all. She gave out a tiny hiccup. She did not cry, yet her nose was running. She wiped it with her sleeve. Gilbert wished he could have offered her his own. "I'm sorry I couldn't stay, Anne." Anne shook her head fiercely in reply.

"But you must stay, Gil! You can't leave me. You just can't." Gilbert wished, more than anything, that he could grant her wish, yet as ill as he was, he could still read the signs—and the signs showed that he had been beaten. It would be cruel of him to give her false hope.

Gilbert was surprised to find his cheek grow wet; he realized that a tear had escaped his own eyes. He closed them as Anne wiped it away. Speaking was difficult, and so Gilbert lay in silence, his eyes still closed in thought, choosing his words with great difficulty—but what was there to say, except everything? Yet it was not Gilbert who broke the silence now, but Anne. Gilbert abandoned his contemplations as her broken voice rang through the room.

_Hear the wind blow, dear, hear the wind blow,_

_Hang your head over, hear the wind blow._

_Roses love sunshine, violets love dew,_

_Angels in heaven know I love you,_

_Know I love you, dear, know I love you,_

_Angels in heaven, know I love you.**_

Gilbert opened his eyes and peered up at her. Oh, that he might stay on this earth a few days longer, if not to simply treasure that sweet sound—surely the songs of angels would not compare. Anne slipped off of her chair and down to her knees, where she knelt beside him, her head mere inches from his. There was her face before him, more concrete than anything had been for many days. Gilbert peered into her eyes; he found a glint of green there, after all, where the light escaped the curtains and struck her face. He counted her freckles—as if he didn't already know the precise location of each one—and beheld the wisps of hair that framed her face.

Gilbert thought over Anne's insistence that he stay. If only she knew how easy it would be... to slip into the darkness that rose up inside of him. He needed only to give himself over to it. Gilbert had never realized before just how _easy_ death could be. He imagined it would be more or less like falling into the deepest of sleeps. Yet he could not bring himself to give in—not yet. Not when Anne's face was before him. If his time had indeed come, all he wanted from life in that moment was a few more minutes, or hours, to drink in her presence.

He lifted his wrist an inch from the mattress and extended a finger. "May I?" he whispered. Somehow, Anne understood. She took his wrist in both hands and lifted it to her face. Gilbert stretched out his hand and stroked her jawline with the backs of his fingers. She raised his hand still higher and he caressed her cheekbone with his thumb. Then she brought his hand to her ear and he ran a finger along its outer edge, before stroking her soft eyelids. Finally, he cupped her face weakly, with naught but his fingertips.

"You are beautiful, Anne," he sighed, before allowing her to lay his hand back at his side.

Anne took him by surprise as she stood from her spot on the floor and settled herself next to him on the bed. She leaned over him, bringing her left arm across his chest and pressing her hand into the mattress to steady herself.

"My turn," she whispered, as she brought her free hand up to his face. First she stroked the hair around his temples, then she ran her hand over his heated forehead. He closed his eyes as she ran her fingers over them, then continued down the bridge of his nose. There was something so intimate about the way she touched him then—not as a friend or a sister but—dare he say it—as a _lover_. She brought her fingers over his mouth; he puckered his lips ever-so-slightly and kissed them.

Next, Anne surprised him still further as she leaned in, closer, closer, and pressed her lips into his. She brushed him with one peck, then two, before taking his upper lip gently between her own. She lingered there a moment, her skin felt cool against his. He tasted honey, and ginger, and lemongrass. But wait, there was something else entirely—something salty. His eyes flickered open slightly, only to see that tears were pouring from Anne's eyes and down her face, making their way into her kiss.

In that moment, Gilbert was provided with a brief sense of clarity amidst the confusion and chaos of his mind. In that kiss, he felt everything—her grief, and angst, and guilt; her sadness and her fear; but mostly her _love._ There was no falsity here—no tricks, or lies, or mistaken feelings—there was only love, and it was Gilbert's turn to feel the fool.

It had been a kiss that had shown Anne Shirley her true feelings for Gilbert Blythe, and so, as fate would have it, it had been another kiss that had rescued Gilbert from his delusions and brought him into the complete, irrefutable knowledge of it.

A warmth spread through him just then, like nothing he had ever felt before. It started in his core and spread outward, heating every vein and tissue and enveloping his very being, casting away the pain and frailty for one magical moment. Anne's lips left his and she raised herself up slightly, her face still inches from his own. Despite his weak muscles and understated movements, he felt his mouth turn outwards in a wide smile.

"I love you, Gilbert," Anne said through her tears.

"I know."

* * *

_*Taken from "The Raven," Edgar Allan Poe, 1845_

_**Taken from "Down in the Valley," a North American folk song originating in the mid 1800's._

_AN: They say the shadow proves the sunshine, and so if you are ready to turn down the grim and turn up the cheer, you have not long to wait… the next chapter will be sentimental to say the least. I had originally written it as the second half to this chapter, as a way to sort of balance it out, but it got far too long and so I have been reworking it into two separate ones. _

_I realize the perspective in this chapter changed from Gilbert to Anne and then back to Gilbert again. There were just some things that I needed from Anne's perspective, and others I needed from Gilbert's. The next chapter will be this way as well, so please let me know if you found it confusing! Thanks as always for taking the time to read!_


	10. All Through the Night

_This chapter ended up being rather lengthy, but I simply couldn't bear to cut anything out. Knowing you all, I thought you would feel the same. We'll pick up now where we left off, later that night. _

**Chapter 10: All Through the Night**

**T**

"Do you remember, Gil? The day we met?" Anne asked, as she played gently with the skin on top of Gilbert's hands. Evening was fading to blackness; a kerosene lamp now cast a dim glow throughout the room. Anne had made herself comfortable in her chair, which she had pushed up against Gilbert's bed. She had no plans to leave it again that night, and so she had fetched herself a cushion from the living room, along with a knitted blanket of green and white stripes, which she had wrapped around herself.

"How could I forget?" came Gilbert's faint reply, as the scene replayed itself in his head. "I've still got the bump as a souvenir." Anne laughed as she brought her fingers to his hair and felt the skin under it.

"No bump," she said confidently.

"You hated me so," Gilbert sighed, yet not without a small smile. His voice was as weak and labored as ever, yet a certain spark burned within him that had been absent until that afternoon. The heat that had spread through him upon realizing Anne's true feelings had receded, yet not without first settling itself inside his heart—he felt that in a way, it kept it beating.

"What a goose I was," Anne said, with a shake of her head. "Did I ever tell you… what I told Diana on that day?"

"Before or after you smashed your slate over my head?"

"Before," Anne giggled. Gilbert merely stared at Anne patiently, waiting for her to continue. "I told her I thought you quite handsome," Anne admitted, lowering her long red lashes like the schoolgirl of old. Gilbert cocked his head skeptically. "I did!" Anne exclaimed. "I adored your messy curls and the roguish glint in your eyes, although I told myself I hated them later."

Gilbert's chest rose and fell repeatedly—the soft echoes of laughter that his body had failed to propel to the surface. "I never knew that," he replied.

"Did I not make it clear that day?" Anne joked.

Gilbert was enjoying this quiet companionship between them. Anne looked simply sweet, curled up in her blanket, with her toes just peeking out from underneath as they rested lightly on his mattress; she was a picture of perfect innocence. Were he well, he would have climbed right under it with her. He was enjoying reminiscing with her about the many memories from days of old, and he was grateful to find that a tiny thread of clarity had returned to his thoughts; somehow his memories were not so elusive as they had been. His mind still attempted to wander; his dreams knocked faintly on the door of his mind, yet Gilbert poured all his energy into focusing on Anne, and following the thread of their conversation—this sacred conversation that both Anne and Gilbert knew could be their last.

He could leave her at any time; he need only choose the moment. Yet in the most recent hours, another thought had entered his mind. What if he _didn't_ choose a moment? What if he just kept focusing on Anne, and talking, and remembering? Could he outlast the evil that threatened to take the beautiful image before him and replace it with nothingness? Gilbert did not know the answer to this question, but he would try to hold on, as long as he could. Until then, he would savor every second.

"I want to show you something," Gilbert said, his lips parting ever-so-slightly as the words left him. He lifted his wrist as far as he could and pointed across the room. Anne turned to see what he was gesturing to, and her eyes fell upon the old mahogany desk on the opposite wall.

"Top left," he said. "Go and see."

Anne eyed Gilbert quizzically, then obeyed. She crossed gingerly to the desk and gently pulled the drawer open. She looked back at Gilbert, her eyes filled with curiosity.

"Take it," he urged. And so Anne reached inside and withdrew a battered old cigar box, its faded blue and gold lettering covered with a thin layer of dust. She gently brushed it off, then resumed her seat next to Gilbert, resting it carefully on her lap.

"Bought that with Charlie, 'round the time I met you," Gilbert explained slowly, concentrating on each word. "We snuck off to smoke them... in the woods by the cemetery." Anne furrowed her brow and shook her head slightly. He knew she longed to reprimand him for doing such a thing.

"And how did thirteen-year-old Gilbert Blythe like his cigar?" she said instead.

"Threw up, not ten minutes later," Gilbert admitted with another of his strained chuckles. Anne smiled. There was hardly any need for her to tell him that it served him right. "Go on then," he whispered.

With trembling fingers, Anne removed the cover. There were no cigars inside, although the box would forever smell of cedar and cherry. Anne eyed the contents within and immediately brought her hand to her heart. Inside lay a myriad of trinkets, and Gilbert could tell by Anne's face that she recognized all of them. What caught her attention first was the token which lay on top of the pile. Anne pinched it between two fingers and held it up—a broken piece of chalk slate.

"I can't believe it…" she gasped. "But why on earth did you think to _keep _it?"

Gilbert shrugged his shoulders as he remembered getting up to leave his desk that day. In his hurry to intercept Anne at the front door, he had accidentally tapped the piece with his foot, sending it skidding across the floor. He had glanced around and, after making sure no one was looking, had scooped it up and placed it in his pocket.

"I guess I knew... even then," he said with a shrug, before adding, "It gave me hope, you know, later on. If you had forgiven me against all odds, maybe one day you could love me, too." Gilbert spoke slowly, pausing after each few words to gather his strength.

Anne ran her fingers along the edges of the jagged piece of slate while she looked down at the other contents of the box. She let out a tiny gasp as her eyes fell upon something else; Gilbert watched as she withdrew a white tissue-paper rose and held it out, her fingers grasping its tiny woven stem.

"From the Christmas concert," he said simply.

"Ah, yes," said Anne, whose eyes were beginning to water at the sight of it. "Diana told me you had taken it—I didn't want to believe her." Gilbert was surprised at this; he thought he had been so secretive!

"Couldn't help it," he admitted. "It smelled like the hair of the Fairy Queen." Anne gazed at him a moment, as though she was surprised he would remember the name of the poem she recited that night. Gilbert was also surprised by his own memory—only that morning, he hadn't been able to recall what subject he had gotten his B.A. in! Anne gave him a peck on the cheek, before returning the flower to the box, exchanging it for a slender white ribbon. She looked at him, perplexed.

"You lost it," Gilbert said simply, "the day you fell from Moody's ridgepole. I found it where you had fallen."

"So I did," murmured Anne, as she absentmindedly rubbed her ankle. "As they say, '_Pride cometh before the fall.'_ That was one of the stupider things I have done! Although perhaps not quite as foolish as attempting to walk home after."

"I offered you a ride, you know," Gilbert reminded her, with what he thought was a smirk.

"I suppose I still had plenty of pride left to spare!" Anne confessed, as she placed the ribbon back inside the box. Next, she took out a faded newspaper clipping and examined it.

"This is that crossword we did, that day we were studying in the library at Redmond!" she exclaimed, as she looked it over more closely. "Most of the answers are in your writing, of course. You always had a knack for these."

"Mmmm," Gilbert replied in agreement.

"Let's see," Anne continued. "We had taken a break when we did this. What were you helping me study for again?" She snapped her fingers repeatedly in contemplation.

"Your biology exam."

"Oh, yes," Anne said, recalling the test with a grimace. "And I simply could not remember any of those silly scientific names! So you helped me come up with mnemonics." Gilbert smiled at the memory.

"Aunt Ruth's Pickled Tooth," he suggested.

"Anura Ranidae, Panthera Tigris," Anne recited from memory.

"Mice Munch a Saucy Lunch."

"Macropus Macropodidae, Sauria Lacertidae," Anne said, before bursting into a fit of laughter. "Oh, Gil, here I go again! We were laughing so hard that day! I couldn't control myself for the world! The librarian had to come and tell us to quiet down, remember?"

"And we didn't," Gil added, attempting to muster a grin.

"I remember laughing so hard I fell right off of my chair… and the tears were just streaming from my eyes. And you had yourself a good laugh first, but then you, you…" she stopped here suddenly, as a glimmer of understanding dawned on her face. She seemed to be recalling the memory in a new light.

"Helped you up, yes," Gilbert said gently. He remembered that moment, clear as day. He had taken her hand in his, while placing the other just under her elbow and guiding her carefully back onto her feet. Their eyes had met, and Anne had looked at him oddly then; he had lain awake the entire night afterwards, wondering what she had been thinking in that moment.

"Did you feel it, Anne?" he asked. She looked up from the crossword and into Gilbert's eyes—each was remembering the tenderness of that moment.

"Yes," she replied quietly. "I always felt it Gilbert, every time." He could see the honesty in her eyes and knew she meant it. Oh, how he longed for the strength to kiss her right now!

"What's next?" he asked. Anne replaced the crossword, this time taking out a folded yellow card, sewn together with a golden tassel. She took it up in her fingertips and opened it.

"Well then, you sure have a knack for taking my things, Gilbert!" Anne half-cried, half-laughed. "I remember looking all over for this dance card. My _first_ dance card, you know."

"Alright, that one I stole," admitted Gilbert, with the traces of a wink.

"After giving me the cold shoulder!"

"You should talk..." he said, with a small chuckle that quickly turned into a nasty cough. Gilbert had forgotten for one wonderful moment how sick he was, yet here was the painful evidence of it. His mouth was filled with a sour taste as phlegm caught in his throat. Wordlessly, Anne brought a towel to his lips, before telling him to spit. Gilbert was reminded of just how much he hated for her to see him this way. He hated that he could not be strong for her. Anne set the towel back on the stand and resumed their conversation, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

"Do you remember the first time we danced?" she asked. Gilbert nodded his head slowly.

"White Sands party, just before Redmond," he said simply. Their conversation was taking its toll on him; his words were growing more feeble. Anne seemed to sense this—he was certain it worried her, although she said nothing.

"The band had just struck up a waltz, and I saw you walking across the room. I thought you were making your way to Ruby Gillis…" a new memory struck her and she paused for a moment. "Yet for some reason, I secretly wished you would pass by her and come to me, although I wouldn't admit it to myself. And then, as if in response to my thoughts, you _did_ walk by her."

"Ah yes..." Gilbert said slowly. "I was never walking towards Ruby. It was always you… it will always be you," he whispered, his tired eyes still boring into her. Anne smiled as she brushed a curl out of her eyes. Gilbert found her irresistible then; it seemed some strange sort of torture— the fact that he could do nothing about it. He imagined rising from his pillow and kissing her, pausing only for a moment, to pull her forward onto the bed… he would prop himself up on one elbow and stroke those beautiful golden-red locks, before leaning in again…

"Tell me more," he said.

"Well," continued Anne, oblivious to Gilbert's fantasies. She put down the card and took his hand in her own. "You reached my side, and you held out your arm, and I felt my breaths quicken and my heart start thumping in my chest. And then you took me around the room, and the one thing I remember was how you _led me_; you were so strong and confident. You made everything feel so easy. And afterwards, I could not explain to myself the flush in my cheeks or the shaking in my hands. I always wondered if you noticed."

"Of course I did, Anne. I always did." Anne smiled at him.

Gilbert was growing very tired now. As the minutes ticked by and Anne talked on, he began to feel the overwhelming need to close his eyes and rest a moment. He did not know if it was sleep which overtook him, or something else. Fearful, he tried to resist, but it was becoming very difficult. He gave in for just a moment... it was then that he felt Anne's cool hand upon his arm. The other stroked the side of his face. He opened his eyes and saw that she had leaned into the bed.

"Stay with me, Gilbert," she said. Her voice was trembling yet her hands held him steady.

"I'm trying, Anne." If Anne had only known how hard Gilbert was _trying_ in that moment. Giving in would certainly be easier; staying was hard. The darkness threatened to swallow him, yet he kept his eyes set on her face, and his ears fixed on her words. What remained of his strength, he saved for speech. "Go on, keep me focused. It helps. And just so you know, Anne... I love you."

... ... ...

A longer or more trying day, Anne could not remember. First, there had been the incredible ache she had felt for days past, knowing that Gilbert still did not realize how much she truely cared about him. Then there had been the fear and alarm that had seized her upon seeing the rash covering his chest, and the all-encompassing dread that had filled her when the doctor had delivered his grim news. Yet washing over it all, trumping everything else, was the wave of relief that she had felt upon hearing him say those two beautiful words… "_I know." _He knew!

Should he leave her that night—although she felt as if her own life would end as well—at least he would leave knowing just how very loved he was. And so as Anne had sat with Gilbert, holding his hand and chatting softly of days gone by, a certain sense of serenity had entered into her heart, nestling itself up against the fear and dread.

She had been so incredibly touched upon viewing Gilbert's box of trinkets—the idea that he would save so many small tokens of their past warmed her very heart. Even in his illness, he was always finding ways to tell her how much he loved her. Yet that box of trinkets, while showing her how precious and valued she was in Gilbert's eyes, brought into even clearer focus the sharp reality of what she would lose, if he left her now. The boy on the bed loved her more deeply than anyone else ever would; the thought of a life without him was unbearable.

And so, when she had looked up from the dance card she was holding and seen Gilbert fighting to keep his eyes open, her heart had nearly stopped beating in her chest. _No. This could not be it. This was not the time._ Perhaps he only needed a bit of rest? Yet she could not be sure—she feared that if sleep overtook him now, he would not awaken.

And so she had stroked his face, and sung to him, and urged him to stay in the light. They had gone through the remainder of the tokens—a dried corsage, a ferry ticket, a faded copy of "Bingen on the Rhine," a newspaper article titled "Avonlea Notes," and a few various presents she had given him on birthdays past. Anne had chatted to him of each one, keeping his mind busy.

She was just putting a silver pocket watch back into the box when Lyddie entered the room with a pitcher of water, a tin of ointment, and a fresh set of towels. She crossed to the washstand and set her burden upon it, then she joined Anne by Gilbert's bedside. She leaned over him and removed the towel currently laying on his forehead, before feeling his skin with the back of her hand.

"Has his fever broken?" Anne asked hopefully, although why, she did not know, for she knew perfectly well it hadn't.

"It's still as hot as before," Lyddie said with a click of the tongue. Her voice was notably less cheerful than usual, and this worried Anne. "How are you feeling, Gilbert?" Lyddie asked cautiously.

"Like death," came Gilbert's faint reply.

"That's not funny, Gil!" Anne exclaimed. Gilbert shrugged his shoulders. Even under the mask of sickness, she could see that mischievous smile she loved so.

Lyddie looked confused. Perhaps she wasn't used to her patients making jokes on their deathbeds. She unbuttoned Gilbert's shirt now and began rubbing ointment into his skin. Anne found she did not mind Lyddie touching Gilbert anymore—it seemed quite a petty thing that she had ever been upset by it.

"It's for the scarring," Lyddie explained to Anne as she rubbed away. Well, if Lyddie was worried about scars, that meant she didn't think Gilbert a lost cause, after all. This was somewhat comforting. "Change his towel every twenty minutes, Anne. I'll be back every hour," Lyddie ordered, as she wiped her hands, leaving Anne to refasten the shirt buttons.

"Of all the jokes to make, Gilbert," Anne scolded softly, after Lyddie had left the room. She reached over to the bedside table and took up the lid to the cigar box.

"Thought it was funny," Gilbert replied meekly. Anne was on the point of replacing the lid when her eyes fell upon something she did not recognize—a bundle of folded pieces of paper, tied together by a leather shoe string.

"Forgot those were there," Gilbert said, as she reached for it and took it into her hands. "Open them."

Anne was overwhelmed with such curiosity that her fingers trembled as she pulled at the ends of the string. It fell away at her touch. She set the bundle down on Gilbert's bedside table as she took up the topmost piece and carefully unfolded it. The paper was covered in Gilbert's thin, slanted hand. It appeared to be a letter of sorts. She looked up at him, confused.

"It's for you," Gilbert stated sheepishly. "They're all for you." It was then that Anne noticed that all of the letters were addressed in the same way: "_To: Miss Anne Shirley_," followed by the date. Some of the dates were quite recent, from only months before. Yet Anne was surprised to find that some had been written several years past. She cocked her head at Gilbert.

"I never meant to send them…" he explained. "It's just… what I would have said." Anne was blown away as she looked back at the letter in her hand, then at the pile of others on Gilbert's bedside table. _Letters unsent. _And oh, how many of them there were!

"It helped… writing it all down. Never thought you'd read them. But, seeing as I may not be around…"

"Don't talk like that, Gil," Anne said. Gilbert merely shrugged. "Are you sure you want me reading these, Gilbert?" she asked. She was quite intrigued, yet also scared of what she would find. There were Gilbert's thoughts, pure and raw and _personal. _It felt like an invasion of his privacy to read them now.

"Go on," Gilbert insisted. "I want you to."

"Right here? Out loud?"

"Please," Gilbert nodded, his tired eyes imploring. "It helps me remember. It keeps my mind busy."

And so, with a voice that trembled as much as her hands, she looked over the first letter. It was short, and so she read it in its entirety.

_"April 4th, 1880_

_I heard you say the most peculiar thing to Diana today... 'Why did God curse me with this hair?' Anne, can you truly be so blind? Do you not notice the way the sun alights upon each strand, framing your face in a sea of tangy oranges and vibrant reds? Do you not see the way it complements those seven irresistible freckles on your nose, or the misty green threads woven through those perfect gray eyes? Your hair captivates me—I could stare at it all day, yet it would not feel as if a single minute had passed by. If you cannot see the beauty in those golden red locks, know that when I close my eyes, they are all I see. But if you really, truly hate them so, all I can conclude is that maybe, just maybe, when God created you, he was thinking of me._

_Ever yours,_

_Gilbert"_

Anne's voice had grown quite husky by the time she finished the letter. Her eyes had begun to water. Gilbert's words were so gentle and loving and _sentimental_, and they sent a warm tingle through her body. They were pure and utter Gilbert, and saying them aloud was almost too much to handle. She somehow felt she did not deserve them.

"Go on," Gilbert urged. Anne placed the letter in a separate pile and picked up the next. This one was far too long to read to completion, and so she skimmed it with her eyes, reading the parts that caught her attention.

_"I cannot shake the way you looked at me tonight, as if you were seeing me for the first time. I saw the veil removed, Anne—not the veil Miss Lavender wore during the ceremony today, but the veil that has forever clouded your eyes. Those eyes were fixed upon mine, searching for something… something you found. But it surprised you, Anne—your gaze faltered and you looked away. And when you looked back, you seemed blinded once more..."_

Anne stopped here and looked up. "I remember that moment," she said softly, taking Gilbert's hand in her own once more and looking into his eyes. "I remember because I felt it, too. It was after the wedding. It was as we walked home. You made this beautiful comment, Gil—one I will always remember. You mentioned how beautiful it would be, for two people to come hand and hand through life, with no memories behind them but those which belonged to—"

"Each other," Gilbert finished, his muted words underlining her own. Anne suddenly felt a sharp pang of sadness. She thought of all the memories left to be made, until her time on earth was through. Would she go through life, from now until the bitter end, with not a single new memory to share with Gilbert?

"Yes," said Anne with a small sniff. "And I—I felt something in that moment, Gil. More than a flush in my cheeks, or a queer beat of the heart—I felt a sense of belonging. For the first time I knew, even if it was just for that one moment, that in the end, the person I was meant to share my life with was you." _So please don't leave me,_ she thought. Gilbert sighed contentedly and settled himself further into his pillow.

Anne returned the letter to the table and retrieved another. She looked it over, the word "_breathtaking" _caught her eye and she stopped to read more thoroughly.

"_It wasn't fair, Anne. You looked so breathtaking, as you descended the stairs in your new inky gown, and it was all I could do not to bound up the steps and sweep you off of your feet, carrying you all the way to the dance."_

Anne remembered the gown in question—an airy, flowing fabric in a deep purple color that shimmered as the light fell upon it. She had worn it to the end-of-term dance, that first year she lived in Patty's Place. She had seen Gilbert's face then, as she came down to greet him and the others—the way he had looked at her had made her feel excited and uncomfortable, all at the same time.

"_If only you knew, Anne, why we only danced one time. I had to stay away from you, for fear I might be overcome with the impulse to kiss you, or better yet, pull you off of the floor and steal away to some secret place where I might have you to myself. Later that night, I did steal you away... in," _Anne's voice cracked here, "_in my dreams."_

Anne paused as she looked up at Gilbert. He was gazing at her tenderly.

"I still have that dress," she said. "I'll wear it for you some day, and this time, you _can_ steal me away." A pained look flickered across Gilbert's face now, and she knew what had caused it. Anne could not handle the anguished way he looked at her now, as if he might lose her in a moment's time. She hastily put the letter aside and opened another.

Her hands shook as she read the date across the top. It was a date that she, too, had committed to memory.

"_April 23rd, 1885"_

She glanced at Gilbert apprehensively. "I can't," she pleaded, her eyes wide.

"I'd like you to read it, but if you'd rather not…"

"If you want me to," Anne said. The least she could do was honor his wish. She looked down at the letter. It took a few seconds before she could muster up the courage to read it.

"_Today you told me you loved me. No, not with words—those had been so clearly to the contrary. But still you told me, in every other way. I saw it in the way you stumbled over your words, as you tried explain your refusal. I saw it in the way you bit your lip as you looked into my eyes. It was there in the way you said my name, lingering on each syllable as you turned the sounds over in your mouth. It was there in the way your cheeks flushed as I took your hand in mine, and in the way your eyes faltered under my gaze, so that you had to turn away. The very ground seemed to vibrate with the beating of your heart. Words cannot describe the pain I felt when you—"_

Anne faltered here. She could not bring herself to say the words aloud—she simply could not. And so she read, rather than spoke, the next few lines.

_My ears grew fuzzy, I thought for sure, this must be a nightmare—surely this could not be your response. Life as I knew it began to collapse around me, I can still hear the last shards of my broken heart clattering upon the ground… If I cannot have you, Anne, I do not know what I will do._

Tears began to stream down Anne's cheeks; the letter shook in her quivering hands.

_I know you love me, Anne, or else I am blind. I can see it, plain as day, which is why, no matter how hard I try, my greatest fear is that I will never, ever, learn to let you go._

"Oh, Gilbert," sighed Anne, as she wiped her eyes in vain. "You were not the blind one—it was me. It was always me."

"Love is blind," Gilbert replied faintly, as he lay back and closed his eyes.

"Not yours," she said. To this, Gilbert had no rebuttal. Anne said nothing for several moments.

"You can stop, Anne, if you like. I never meant to upset you."

"It's alright, Gilbert. I like reading them," insisted Anne. And it was true. Some of the letters were pleasing to read, while others were painful, yet she wanted to read them, because Gilbert had written them—and also because she knew that in a way, having her read them comforted him. There would be no secrets between them tonight.

The next letter was dated nearly a year later, and so she knew the tone it would inevitably take. She read it in a mere whisper.

"_And when he touched the small of your back, and whispered in your ear, a hot fury rose up within me; it makes me feel so ashamed. The problem, is, Anne, that I have always dreamed of the day that I might be the one to touch you there, and weave my fingers through yours, and whisper sweet words of romance in your ear. It's too much for me to bear, seeing Roy do all of the things I have longed to do for so many years."_

Anne's voice abandoned her completely here, and she put the letter down, unable to read any further.

"Ironic, isn't it?" Gilbert murmured from the bed. Anne raised her eyebrows. "Well, you came to love me, in the end. I thought I'd finally get to do all of those things. I did do some of them. And now…"

Anne realized what Gilbert was trying to say.

"Don't talk like that, Gilbert. You're going to get better."

"I hope so."

Anne spent the next half hour looking over the rest of the letters—some she recited out loud, while others she could only read. Little lines here and there caught her attention and burned themselves into her memory.

"_You looked like a fairy today, Anne. Your dress was the color of faded pink roses, which matched the flowers you wore in your hair. Did I ever tell you how much I love it, when you put flowers in your hair?"_

"_When I asked you to dance, did you hear my breath catch in my throat? I dream of the day when I might fill my entire card with your perfect name."_

"_All the latin and algebra in the world cannot rid my thoughts of your beautiful face tonight."_

"_If I, in one brave moment of impulse, were to send this to you, what would you say?"_

As Anne laid the last letter down on the bedside table, she closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. So many emotions had been stirred upon reading them—feelings of being cherished and adored, but still others of sorrow and regret. She knew Gilbert had always been in love with her, but reading his own words—echoes of the past—made it all much more real.

"Thank you for sharing these with me," Anne said, as she left her seat and sat next to him on the bed, her blanket still wrapped around her shoulders. Yet Gilbert did not respond; he lay still, with his eyes closed. She realized he had fallen asleep.

She kissed him lightly, then withdrew and looked into his face. She lost herself in the perfection of every feature, and she reached out to touch him once more. His face was filled with a peace she had rarely seen in recent days, and she took comfort in knowing that nightmares did not trouble him tonight. Yet there was something in that carefree look on his face, and in the way he lay so completely and utterly still. For a terrible moment, Anne's heart stopped beating.

"Gilbert," she choked, as her eyes began to water. She lay her hand on his shoulder and shook him lightly, but he did not move. Her eyes travelled down to his chest. Each second seemed an hour as she watched to see whether it still rose and fell in a soft, perfect rhythm. "Gil!" she exclaimed, her body beginning to shake.

To her great relief, his eyelids fluttered open. He fixed her with his hazel eyes. Anne put her hand to her mouth and tried to calm her shaking body.

"Oh, Gil. I thought… I thought…"

"I'm still here, Anne." Oh, that voice. That wonderful, magical voice. If he left her now, she felt certain it would haunt her dreams for all eternity.

"Don't leave me, Gilbert," she sobbed, as she lay her head on the pillow next to him. "You can't, you just can't."

"Not sure I have a choice, Anne," he breathed. She shook her head in defiance.

"If you go, I don't know what I'll do."

"You'll be fine, Anne. You're strong. You'll follow your dreams. You'll write your book…"

"My only dream is you, Gilbert. It will only ever be you." Gilbert moved his finger an inch, resting it against hers.

"Just think, Gil, of that warm hearth in our house of dreams, with our photographs on the mantle, and you on the sofa, reading a book, with my head in your lap," she said. Gilbert let out a contented sigh at the thought. Anne brought his hand to her lips and kissed it. She was determined to remind him of what was to come, were he to hold on for a few more hours. She wanted him to see just how sweet life would be, if they had each other.

"Think of the laughter of our children on Christmas Day, as they play in the freshly fallen snow," she said. "Think of the glee on our son's face as you give him his first kite, and the pride you'll get from teaching him how to fly it. Think of lifting our daughter up on your shoulders, as she picks an apple from a tree—our tree." Anne was crying uncontrollably as she said the words, thinking of the future they might—or might not—have.

"Imagine you and me, our hair worn and grayed, still walking hand and hand through the garden that we planted years before. And just think of all the memories we'll have—more memories with each other than anyone else. When I think of all the moments I'll have, Gil, from now until the end, all I know is that I want—no, I need—for them to be with you."

"There's nothing I want more, Anne," replied Gilbert softly. He kept his eyes fixed upon her—she engraved them in her mind, from the precise shade of hazel to exact length of the dark brown lashes dusting the lids around them.

"Promise me, Gilbert, that if the darkness starts to creep upon you tonight, you will think of these things. And I will hold your hand and sing you through the pain, all through the night. And tomorrow, we'll watch the sun rise together. And every day after that. Promise me, Gil."

"I'll try, Anne. I promise."

And then she lay her head next to him once more, as she stroked his soft hair with her fingertips.

"_Angels watching ever round thee,_

_All through the night,_

_In thy slumbers close surround thee,_

_All through the night,_

_They should of all fears disarm thee,_

_No forebodings should alarm thee,_

_They will let no peril harm thee,_

_All through the night." *_

Anne half-sung, half-cried the words, as she continued to run her fingers through his hair. She lifted her chin and gazed at Gilbert's sleeping form, valiantly fighting off any weariness that threatened to overtake her.

As the night wore on, Gilbert's parents passed in and out of the room, for they, too, could not bear to be parted from their son. They chatted softly into the wee hours of the morning, while Gilbert drifted in and out of sleep. Mrs. Blythe recounted memories from Gilbert's childhood, while Anne listened eagerly. For the most part, John Blythe remained still, while gazing into his son's face. And all three of them found their eyes returning often to Gilbert's chest, making sure it was still rising and falling in turn.

Anne would never remember exactly when she fell asleep that night, but when she finally awoke, the darkness outside had begun to soften; dawn's first light began to paint the sky. She was on the floor, with her knees curled up under her, while her head lay next to Gilbert's on the mattress. She looked up to see Mrs. Blythe, who had her hand upon Anne's shoulder and tears in her eyes. Anne feared to look at Gilbert—lest she be forced to behold that unbearable glaze in his eyes, or an eerie tranquility upon his face that meant the end had come.

"Look, Anne," Mrs. Blythe said simply, while gesturing over to her son. And so, terrified, Anne looked up. There lay Gilbert, eyes closed and hands laying gently at his sides. Yet something about him was different. Anne's eyes fell on his forehead, which was drenched with sweat that had now begun to drip down his face and onto the sheets below.

Anne knew that could mean only one thing.

"His fever has broken," Mrs. Blythe said, yet there was no need; the voice in Anne's head was shouting it from the rooftops.

Anne felt her brain grow numb as the world began to spin; she felt she must surely be dreaming. A current of joy flooded through her veins and her heart began to beat in double-time. Before she even realized what was happening, Mrs. Blythe had pulled her into a firm hug.

"It's broken," was all that Anne could manage to say, as Mrs. Blythe rocked her back and forth with glee. "It's broken, it's broken."

"It's broken?" came Gilbert's quiet voice from the bed. Startled, the two women looked over at him. He stared at them through wide eyes, alert and eager, but mostly hopeful. Anne dropped to the floor and knelt next to him, kissing his cheeks, and chin, and finally his beautifully wet forehead.

"You did it, Gil," she said through her tears. "You did it. You stayed."

* * *

*Taken from "All Through the Night," a Welsh Lullaby.

_AN: I told you this chapter would be sentimental…. I'll admit, it was so long that it all sort of blurs together in my head-I would love to know what you thought of it. Thank you as usual for all of the favorites, and follows, and reviews! They mean the world. _

_So much of this chapter comes from others… little things in your reviews always spark my idea wheel. And I shall have to thank Katherine-with-a-k yet again… the letter idea was sparked by one of her most recent chapters, about a letter Jerry writes to Nan, yet does not know if he will send. And the bit about the "inky dress," was her genius as well. Thank you, my dear!_


	11. The Shape of Second Chances

_AN: Is anyone else excited to get out of that dreary house? Well then, a change of scenery for you, and a change of mood to go with it..._

**Chapter 11: The Shape of Second Chances**

**T**

"Where is that girl? The tea will be getting cold," said Rachel Lynde, as she bustled out the front door of Green Gables, setting three saucers on the low wooden table.

"She lost track of time, no doubt," sighed Marilla, who followed behind her with a bowl of plum preserves. She set them next to a plate of baking powder biscuits, before straightening up and untying her apron.

"She didn't set a foot in Green Gables for nearly a week, when Gilbert was ill!" Rachel exclaimed, with a shake of her head. "To think that she slept there, under the same roof! I tell you, in this day and age, _propriety_ has all but gone out the window."

"She was in the spare bedroom, Rachel. And they were hardly romancing over there," replied Marilla, with a roll of her eyes. "Let us not forget that the boy was _dying_."

Rachel Lynde gave out a muted sigh of assent as she began to empty the contents of the kettle into two of the waiting saucers. "Well, in any case, I thought she would be around more now he's got the turn. She sleeps here, I'll give you that, yet without taking a single meal!"

"Good heavens, Rachel, you can't tell me you _miss_ her?" Marilla suggested, her eyebrows raised and a slight grin teasing at her lips.

"Well, I'm not one to deny that I've grown rather fond of her chatter," Mrs. Lynde replied, her nose in the air. "It's not as scattered and outlandish as it once was—leastways not _usually_—and she carries an interesting conversation."

"I'm sorry that you find me so dull," Marilla said in mock offense. "Well, Rachel, do try to put yourself in Anne's shoes for a moment. She's been half in love with the boy since she met him; and now that thick head of hers has finally come to its senses about it, she nearly lost him. You can't imagine she'd prefer spending her time with two old grumps like us, when she could be tending to him."

"I'll not go against you on that, Marilla, even if it _has_ been a week since he got over the worst of it," said Rachel, as she settled herself into a chair and began to survey the biscuits. "But she ought to keep her word about tea…"

"She _has_ kept her word, Rachel. There she is, now."

The two women looked out into the distance, where Anne was walking—or rather, _floating_—up the lane, her arms swinging leisurely at her sides, as if in some slow dance. Upon reaching the house, she lightly flung the gate open and skipped through it, not bothering to close it.

"Hello, dear Mrs. Lynde… even dearer Marilla!" she sang, as she bounded up the steps. "What a beautiful walk from Fairview I've just had! Have you ever seen the sky such a vibrant blue, or felt such a caressing breeze as the one that has been conjured up for us by some good fairy today? It feels like such a shame, that I may not sprout wings and be born upon it, to whatever distant eden its destination may be. Oh, but have I arrived late? I'm afraid I lost track of time… well this just looks like the loveliest tea I've ever seen! You know I love your pink cherry blossom set, Marilla, as opposed to the plain yellow one."

"The loveliest tea you've ever seen…" said Marilla skeptically, while filling Anne's saucer, "and here I've only put out the biscuits and preserves."

"Oh, that may be true, but rather it is beautiful in its simplicity, Marilla," insisted a very serious Anne. "I shall never again feel the need for layered cakes, or chocolate pudding, or lady fingers, so long as I have your exquisite baking powder biscuits and plum preserves." She bent in and gave Marilla a wet kiss on the cheek, before falling into a nearby chair. Marilla wasn't sure whether she was more surprised or amused by this gesture. In the end, what she really wanted to do was laugh.

"Well, perhaps you may find it within you to rest your tongue long enough to enjoy them," Marilla said with a concealed grin. Anne took up her saucer and traced the pattern upon it with a finger, before taking a sip and grimacing to find it was still too hot to drink.

"I take it Gilbert is doing well, Anne," Mrs. Lynde offered. Anne's face lit up at the mention of Gilbert's name.

"Oh, quite well, Mrs. Lynde… he's recovering splendidly. I believe I told you the other day he's been sitting up? He's had not a bout of delirium since two days ago. And he's able to eat a bit now—white rice and stewed porridge, mainly... and tomorrow we're going to try him on some eggs..."

"I'm glad to hear it, Anne," said Marilla, and she meant it. It was incredible, the lively spark that had burned inside of Anne since Gilbert's health first began to improve. You would think that _she_ had been the one on her deathbed, judging by the way she seemed to find joy in all of life's most trivial moments. Anne had always been an enjoyer of life, but this was something else altogether. Marilla had to admit, she was rather jealous of the natural whimsy in Anne's voice, and the way her cheeks had been painted a soft red by love itself… to be so in love was something not to be taken for granted—Marilla had learned this the hard way.

"I'm afraid I'll be leaving again after tea," said Anne, although with not the least hint of disappointment in her voice. "You see, I've been reading to Gilbert, mainly. We've just finished 'Oliver Twist' today, and Gilbert mentioned how it was a shame he'd lent away his copy of 'A Tale of Two Cities,' for he'd like to read that next—he loves Dickens. Well, seeing as I've got a copy of it here, I thought I'd fetch it for him and bring it back first thing."

"You'll be making that walk yet again today? You'll wear yourself right into the ground, Anne!" cried Mrs. Lynde through a mouthful of biscuit.

"It certainly is no small task, coming and going from Fairview so often," added Marilla, although knowing it was of no use to convince Anne otherwise.

"Oh, I don't mind," Anne exclaimed, trying out her tea once again. "You make it sound like a true expedition! It's not far at all, and besides, anything for Gilbert. Goodness knows, he's been through quite the trial. It's the least I can do, Marilla dear. But I promise to spend the entire afternoon here at Green Gables on Sunday."

The rest of the tea passed jovially, with Anne sharing stories of the Blythes and Fairview, while Marilla and Mrs. Lynde updated her with the goings-on of Green Gables. Afterwards Anne fetched her book from upstairs, kissed the two ladies goodbye, and skipped back up the lane towards Fairview, humming in the language of the meadowlarks.

… … …

"Back so soon," grinned Gilbert from his usual spot on the bed, as Anne pushed his bedroom door open and peered inside.

"I promised to fetch the book for you, didn't I?" Anne said, brandishing the cover.

"Oh, splendid. Thank you, Anne," Gilbert replied, stretching out his arm, that she might hand it to him. The book was passed over and Gilbert took it, propping it up on his lap. Anne stood in silent approval as she watched him examine it with a smile on his lips. Each day, his face had a little more color, and his body was a little bit stronger. The mere fact that he was sitting up, and had been able to stretch his arm out to take the book, was evidence to the fact that he was recovering, slowly but surely.

Gilbert's bedroom looked much the same as it had a week ago, except that it was now a much brighter place. She wasn't sure if this was due more to the light streaming in through the now-open curtains, or whether it radiated instead from Gilbert himself. As Gilbert set the book down on the bedside table, Anne noticed a thick envelope laying beside it.

"What's that?" she asked, gesturing to it.

"My coursework for Redmond," Gilbert replied with a groan, as he sat up a little straighter and fingered the envelope. "The list arrived today, and it's _long._" Anne gave a small start at the word _Redmond._ Somehow, amid everything that had happened over the past few weeks, she had completely forgotten that he was leaving her in the autumn. She had been so anxious over his illness, and so relieved over his recovery, that the notion had completely slipped her mind.

"When does term begin?" Anne asked.

"Says here," Gilbert said, pulling a letter from the envelope and tracing the writing with his finger, "September 4th."

_September 4th! _That was three weeks away! She had just begun to get her Gilbert back—not the sickly, delirious one, but the lively, spirited one—and now to realize he would be leaving her so very soon… her heart grew heavy at the mere thought. It was then that another worry crossed her mind.

"And, Gilbert?" she asked tentatively, "I hope you won't mind me asking, but are you sure you'll be well enough to begin now?" She leaned back against his desk, placing her hands on either side.

"I don't think I have a choice, do I?" he said, looking puzzled. "You aren't suggesting I put it off?"

"Well, it will be some time before you have your old strength back…"

"Anne," Gilbert said slowly, as he fiddled absentmindedly with the envelope, "If I put it off, it will be even longer before we are married… I know you don't want that." He peered up at her; she could see from the look in his eyes that _he_ certainly did not want that.

"Good gracious, no!" she exclaimed. "I hadn't thought of that!"

"Even if I were to stay," Gilbert continued, "you'll be off to Summerside, and I shall die of boredom, stuck here in Avonlea by myself." _Of course._ She, herself, was leaving as well, wasn't she?

"Oh, goodness me, I've forgotten all about Summerside!" she exclaimed. Gilbert could only laugh.

"Principal Shirley…" Gilbert mused. "A prestigious title."

"Indeed!" Anne laughed. She stepped forward and gave him a peck on the cheek. Then she went to the window and leaned into the sill, basking in the warmth of the light as it fell upon her face. What a beautiful view, Gilbert had from his room! To the left lay that gorgeous grove of maples, while straight ahead sat the majestic beech tree, where Anne had once sobbed out her worries to Mrs. Blythe. And to the right lay a glimpse of the Lake of Shining Waters, along with a few of the Avonlea residences.

"Come back," Gilbert called from the bed. Anne glanced over at him; the envelope lay on his bedside table, and Gilbert was staring at her with that look that used to make her feel so uncomfortable, yet now made her flush with excitement. There was something about that hungry look in his eyes that made her want to tease him.

"I like it right here, Gilbert. I'm soaking in the light on my face, and the view of those sun-kissed hills in the distance."

"They'll still be there in a minute, please come here," he implored, eyes pleading.

"I suppose they _will_ still be here, but they may not glisten so, as the sun drops lower into the sky," she countered, then giggled inwardly at the look of frustration and determination both, that had come over Gilbert's face.

"Don't make me get out of this bed, Anne Shirley," he threatened.

"Gilbert Blythe! You wouldn't!"

"Maybe I would."

"You know you aren't allowed."

"Since when have I played by the rules, Anne?" Gilbert teased. He raised his eyebrows, and with a hot blush, Anne wondered if Gilbert was remembering the same moment she was. Her eyes grew wide in alarm as Gilbert began to pull back the covers.

"Alright, you win!" she cried, as she crossed to the bed and sat down on the chair next to it, taking "A Tale of Two Cities" into her hands. She was surprised as Gilbert reached out and took it from her, returning it to its spot on the bedside table, all without ever taking his eyes off of her face. Anne looked at him, confused.

"What was the word you used... to describe those hills?" he asked. "I was rather jealous of them..."

"Hmmm? Err... golden?" Anne said, taken aback by the question.

"No, I believe the word you used was sun-_kissed,_" Gilbert said, emphasizing that last word. He waited a moment, and then said, "Please?"

Realizing what Gilbert was asking for, Anne leaned forward and lightly pressed her lips against his. Before she could pull away, Gilbert had lifted his hand and placed it on the back of her head, holding her there.

He was teasing her with his tongue; Anne's entire body began to grow very warm. She remembered more than one dreadful moment, a week ago, when she thought she may never experience this sweet feeling again. He had kissed her a few times since then, but never like _this._

Gilbert leaned forward slightly, his back leaving his pillow as he placed a hand on Anne's shoulder, pulling her towards him, until she began to tip forward off of her chair...

"What are you doing, Gilbert?" Anne asked, suddenly very aware that the door was wide open.

"Something I wanted to do the other day, but couldn't," he replied, before kissing her again. With his lips still on hers, she allowed him to pull her forward gently; she knelt next to him on the floor as he leaned towards her and wrapped fistfuls of her hair in his hands. Anne's scalp tingled with pleasure at the feel of it.

"Gilbert," she managed to say through short breaths, "if your mother sees us now..." another kiss here, "she'll never let me in your room ag—" this sentence was thoroughly silenced by Gilbert; she was lost in the feel of his hands in her hair, and the taste of his mouth against hers. She did not speak again for another minute, until she heard the creak of the stairs.

"Gil!" she whispered, pulling away from him and throwing herself onto the chair, hastily brushing through her hair with her fingertips.

Gilbert merely chuckled, giving her a look of adoration as he watched her sort herself out. Just then, Laura Blythe appeared in the doorway, holding two pale green gardening gloves in her hands.

"Hello, Anne, I thought you had returned. I'm sorry I wasn't able to let you in, I was out trimming the rose bushes. What are you two up to?"

"Just, _reading,_ mother," Gilbert said, as he flashed a look at Anne that made her face go red all over again. "Anne's brought me 'A Tale of Two Cities.' We'd just set it down for a moment while she fetched me a glass of water." Gilbert reached for the glass on the bedside table and took an innocent sip. Anne, flustered and speechless, merely nodded enthusiastically in agreement.

"You always liked Dickens," Mrs. Blythe mused, fooled by the excuse. "Well, I've come to see if you're feeling hungry, Gilbert. Lyddie wants to try out some eggs tonight."

"My appetite is hardly back, but I'll try to stomach it," said Gilbert obediently.

"Very well. I'll be up with a tray in a little while," and she returned the way she had come. Once she was out of earshot, Anne let out a sigh of relief.

"Look at you," said Gilbert, "all flustered and anxious..."

"She could have come in, Gilbert! She'd never let me visit you in here again."

Gilbert shrugged his shoulders, clearly unrepentant. "Alright then… Dickens?"

"Dickens."

… … …

A few days later, "A Tale of Two Cities" had been exchanged for "David Copperfield," and Gilbert was growing stronger and stronger. He began to take his meals in the kitchen—Anne still remembered watching him take those first uneasy steps down the stairs, holding the railing for support, while she and his mother had watched with bated breath, waiting to catch him should he fall. He still spent most of his time in his bed, although the doctor had cleared him to walk around the house, so long as he did not exert himself. Going outside, however, was out of the question.

Lyddie had been dismissed and Anne began to spend a bit more time at Green Gables, although she still spent several hours each day at Gilbert's bedside. Mrs. Blythe had even brought herself to venture out of the house—once to visit Mrs. Sloane, and another time to make some purchases at Lawson's store. That she spent most of her time at home was less to do with fear over Gilbert's health, and more to do with the inordinate amount of pointed looks and whispers which followed her wherever she went; Gilbert's illness and recovery was still the main source of talk around town.

It was on a calm, breezy evening that Anne had knocked on the door of Fairview, and been surprised when Gilbert himself opened it.

"Oh, hello, Gil!" Anne cried. "You're up and about, I see."

"Yes," said Gilbert, as he raised his grip up higher on the door, allowing Anne to pass under his arm and into the house, "I've been feeling quite restless today. I've got a fair bit of strength back, but I'm not to go outside for two more days—doctor's orders." Gilbert said these last few words with a hint of annoyance.

"It's for your own good, Gilbert," Anne said sternly, as she entered farther into the room. She could not help but notice how well Gilbert was looking today. He had traded his simple button-up shirts and knee-length pants for dark-gray trousers and a matching vest—the white shirt beneath it was folded up to his elbows. It was the first time Anne had seen him in normal clothing since she had left for Echo Lodge.

"Well you are looking very smart today, indeed," she said, while biting her lip, as she reached forward and fingered one of his shirtsleeves. "Are your parents in?"

"My father is here, although he adjourned to his room straight after supper. He was mending the fence on the east side all day, and the heat got to his head. And mother is at church, at the Ladies' Supper. I expect Marilla will have gone as well?"

"Yes, she did. I suppose I hadn't expected your mother to go—your family is all the talk these days, you know." Anne was suddenly very aware that she and Gilbert were alone in the house. Here they were, dressed in normal clothes and speaking of normal things—surely they shouldn't be here alone. But, Anne reminded herself, they weren't _really_ alone—John Blythe was in the next room, even if he was asleep.

"Shall I make you some tea?" Anne asked awkwardly, hoping there was at least some way she could make herself useful to him.

"I'd like that," Gilbert replied. And so, thirty minutes later, they sat on the sofa, chatting and polishing off two cupfuls of tea.

"Say, Anne," Gilbert said, as he drained the last contents from his saucer, tipping it over in the air afterwards in the same way he always did, "you know what I'd really love right now?"

"Hmm?" Anne asked, setting her own cup down on the table.

"A nice walk down to the lake," he finished. "It's been weeks since I've felt the wind on my face, not to mention the sun has set and it's shaping up to be a pleasant evening."

"You can't venture outside, Gilbert. Doctor's orders, remember?"

"Oh, doctor, schmoctor," Gilbert said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "He hasn't seen me since yesterday morning; he mayn't realize how well I'm feeling. I think a bit of fresh air will do me good."

"And this, coming from the man who is entering medical school next month!" Anne said incredulously, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Just imagine, Anne," Gilbert said in mock dreaminess, as he waved his hand out into the air, "Just you and me, and the moon above, and the sound of rippling water lapping against the shore… " He smiled as he saw a fanciful look pass over Anne's face, "...your hand in mine… crickets chirping from the reeds…"

"Gilbert!" Anne exclaimed suddenly, pulling her gaze away and shaking her head. "I know what you are trying to do here, and it is fruitless! You simply cannot go out!"

"I think I will," Gilbert decided, making his way to the tiny cupboard under the stairs and opening the door, then straightening up with a pair of shoes. Anne stared in awe as he returned to the sofa and began to fit his feet into them.

"Haven't worn shoes in a while—feels confining," Gilbert mused, as he began to work at the laces.

"Gilbert Blythe, you cannot leave this house!"

"I feel quite well enough, Anne. What are you going to do, tell on me?" He stared at her with raised eyebrows and a mocking grin. He crossed to the front door; Anne beat him there and barred his way. She knew that, despite his improved health, it would require a great effort for him to push her aside.

"Calm down, Miss Shirley. Now, are you coming with me?"

"I'm going nowhere, and neither are you," she said, reaching out and gripping his shoulders with her hands.

"Very well," Gilbert sighed, his arms raised up in defeat. "Well then… what to do, what to do..."

He suddenly leaned in and planted her with a bold kiss. Her grip on him loosened, as expected. Her arms fell to her sides as she was rendered powerless. With his lips still on hers, and before she realized what he was doing, he had reached behind her, lowered the handle of the door, and edged it open. He then released her and skirted sideways out of the house.

Once he was a few feet away, he stopped, looking very pleased with himself, with a glint in his eyes and a roguish grin on his face.

"_Gilbert!_" Anne exclaimed in shock, "that was a very low trick to play!"

"I'm just playing the cards I've got," he stated, raising his eyebrows twice and giving her a wink, before turning and descending the porch steps. He began to walk slowly through the garden, arms outstretched, feeling the evening air against his skin.

"How I've missed the feel of the nightly breezes on my face!" he cried. He spun softly around and saw Anne planted firmly on the porch, arms folded. "Don't be a ninny, Anne. Aren't you coming?"

Anne gave out an exasperated sigh of defeat, then immediately burst into laughter. Gilbert was insufferable in times like these.

"I'll never hear the end of it, if your mother finds out I let you out of the house," she said, as she jogged to catch up.

"Well then you probably shouldn't tell her, should you?" he teased, offering Anne his arm. She looped her own through it, and they set off at an easy pace down the hill. Upon arriving at the lake's shore, Gilbert suggested they amble part-way around it.

They strolled in silence—although not the awkward silence that comes when there is nothing to say. Rather, no words were needed. Both minds were full of words unspoken; both were acutely aware of the fact that for a few dreadful days, they had worried they would never share a moment like this again. They had rounded yet another bend in the road, and it was almost akin to a second chance at life—or at least, life as they hoped it to be.

Anne savored the feel of the soft hairs on Gilbert's arm and the warm presence of his body, walking in stride with her own. She could hear his breaths cut through the night air, and smell the sweet scent of leather and white windsor soap which was carried to her by the breeze—the same breeze that lightly rustled his hair. Coming so close to losing Gilbert had showed Anne with painful clarity just how much he meant to her. She could never take little moments like these for granted.

A short while down the path, Anne and Gilbert came across the bridge where the Newbridge Road spanned the lake. They turned onto it, and the air was filled with the clattering of their feet along its thick wooden slats. About midway they stopped and leaned back against the railing, looking over the lake towards the twinkling lights of Orchard Slope and beyond. The moonlight reflected upon the lake's surface, its image disrupted by the tiniest of ripples, created by the night's gentle breeze grazing upon the water.

"How are you feeling?" Anne asked, upon noticing Gilbert's quickened breaths.

"Let's just say I certainly am not back to my old strength, but I'm feeling fine. I needed this." Gilbert shifted a little closer towards Anne; his arm rested lightly against hers.

"I can't imagine being forced to lay abed for so many weeks," Anne mused, looking upwards in contemplation.

"Well, I didn't notice so much, until this past week or so. I wasn't exactly in my right mind." This was followed by a pause; Anne was remembering the painful way in which his dreams and delusions had overcome his mind—with her being helpless to aid him. Gilbert, it seemed, had read her thoughts, because next he said, "I'm sorry, Anne… I know I said some things..."

"It's alright, Gilbert," Anne said, still looking out at the lake. Her mind, however, was far away—pent up in that dim, muggy bedroom.

"No, it's not," Gilbert said, laying his hand on top of her arm. She looked up at him, his eyes were turned downwards and he wore a sorrowful expression. "You might not think I remember… some of those things I said. But I do. And I am ashamed at the very thought—the words replay themselves over and over in my mind." He paused for a moment, reaching for Anne's hand and brushing it softly with two fingers. "I can't imagine how hard it was for you... rushing back to my side, seeing how sick I was, only for me insist that you—"

"It was the fever talking, Gil. I knew that," Anne insisted. Gilbert's words were so achingly true. Yet it hadn't been his fault, and she could not let him take it to heart. She couldn't let him know the pain it caused her; it was nothing compared to what he had gone through.

"Did you, though?" Anne only stared at Gilbert, taken aback by his question. Once again, he seemed to see through her.

"Well, I…"

"Did you believe—did you _truly_ believe, that my doubt was solely a product of the fever?" Gilbert was staring at her intently, urging her to tell him the truth.

"Well… maybe I wasn't entirely sure…" Anne could tell she had confirmed Gilbert's suspicions. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

"I could never doubt you—you know that right?"

"I know it was all in your subconscious..." Gilbert's face fell, and Anne realized she had used the wrong word.

"So then, you think that, _subconsciously,_ I did bear a certain degree of doubt." His voice was small; he hung his head slightly. Anne searched for the words to tell him what she meant, but did she even know what she was trying to say?

"I guess I just thought… if you truly did doubt me… if wasn't without reason. It was all my fault, after all. You were ill because of me, and how could I love you and make you suffer so!" Anne's eyes began to grow warm as she remembered the painful mix of emotions she had felt, when she had wept in his mother's arms back in the garden of Fairview. She remembered how, despite taking comfort in Mrs. Blythe's reassuring words, she had never quite been able to rid herself of that little voice nagging at the back of her mind, telling her that she was to blame.

"What?" Gilbert gasped. "Anne," he said, as he placed his thumb under her chin and turned it upwards, "have you really gone all this time believing that this was somehow _your_ fault?" She had seldom seen such sadness in his eyes, as she did now.

"Well I..." Anne stammered, her lip quivering. "You said it yourself. You told me you had worn down your health because of me."

"I never said that," Gilbert interjected.

"Well, you said you had done all of that studying because of me. You said you had done it to get me out of your head. And you were so tired at the end of the term. You had lost weight, you were weak—"

"Anne," Gilbert interrupted, placing his fingertips gently over her mouth to stop her from continuing, "I would have caught Typhoid whether I was tired or not."

"But perhaps you would have been able to fight it off before—"

"No, Anne. Typhoid is a ruthless disease. If you ingest food that is contaminated… if the virus is there… there is nothing you can do. I would have caught it either way, and you need to understand that."

"Alright, Gilbert," Anne sighed, unsure what to think. Hadn't Mrs. Blythe said that very thing?

"_Anne_…" Gilbert insisted again, staring at her resolutely. She could see that he meant what he said, and how important it was to him that she believe him. Could she trust him? Yes, she could.

"I believe you; I do," Anne said pointedly. And she smiled when she realized, to her great relief, that it was true. It felt good to talk to Gilbert about these things. It should have been difficult, yet it wasn't. Something had happened, that last great night of illness, when death had knocked at Gilbert's door to find it would not open. Somehow the bond between them, which had always been strong, had blossomed into something else entirely in those wee, harrowing hours.

"And just one more thing, Anne," Gilbert said, coming closer with a tiny step forward. "If what you said is true, and there was a bit of doubt deep down… well, through everything that has happened during my illness… the way you stayed tirelessly by my side, and slept right there in your chair, and cleaned me up during those vulnerable moments, and sang to me through my dreams, and opened your heart to me—not just on that last night… Anne, you have proved to me, so clearly and irrevocably, that you love me."

He cupped her chin in his hands; Anne sighed contentedly. She said nothing; once again, words were not needed. She stepped forward now and rested her arms on the opposite railing of the bridge, leaning into it as she continued to gaze at the lake. Gilbert came up behind her and placed his arms around her shoulders, nuzzling his head against hers. She could feel the whiskers of his chin as they brushed against her cheek.

"I'm glad you stayed, Gilbert," she said.

"So am I," he replied. His jaw moved against her as he spoke, and she could feel the strum of his vocal chords as they sounded in his throat. To be held like this, by Gilbert… was there a more perfect sense of belonging? And then another thought struck her—how was she to spend three years away from him, after all that had happened? The thought was nigh unbearable.

"I wish we had a little more time, before September," she admitted quietly.

"Don't I know it," he agreed with a sigh. "It will pass though… slowly but surely."

"Slowly, being the key word." They did not pick up the strands of their old conversation, back on the porch of Mount Holly. Both knew it was impossible to marry now—indeed, they must wait.

As Anne walked Gilbert home, and kissed him lightly on the front porch, and made her way back to Green Gables, _three long years_ was all she could think about. A few wonderful weeks together, before three long years of only letters, and summers, and holiday visits, before they could be man and wife.

Yet as Anne sat up that night in her east gable room, perched on her bed and fingering Gilbert's wooden horse, she thought of a way—which had never entered her mind before—to make those three years more bearable. Yes, of course! She hastily sat down at her desk, withdrew a piece of paper and a pen from her drawer, and, after dipping the pen into a bottle of ink, began to write.

* * *

**AN: Your reviews for last chapter practically had me in tears. No sarcasm here, I was a soppy mess afterwards, just ask my husband. Words cannot express how glad I am to hear that it moved you so. Thank you!**

_I hate to say it but the end of this story is close at hand. The next chapter will *probably* be the last, although don't worry, I plan to continue onward with another installment. Woohoo! Love as always, J._


	12. Another Redo, Another Bend

_To the top of the story pile, one last time. Can it really be true? And here we have it:_

**Chapter 12: Another Redo, Another Bend**

**T**

Gilbert had come to realize many things as he had lain in his bed, still and helpless, during those painful hours of fever. Yet what he had realized most of all was what a privilege it was just to be alive. It had been nearly three weeks since he had overcome the worst of his illness, and he had ventured outside the house a handful of times since then, although he still savored the luxury of it. What a treat to breathe in the summer air, feeling his chest rise as it filled his lungs! And how colorful everything looked! He could distinguish every leaf on every tree, and count the petals of the sunflowers which grew along the path. And what beautiful, resilient things sunflowers were! Growing ever-taller than the blooms around them, stretching out their wide faces, seeking all that was light and good in the world. They reminded him of Anne, delicate yet hardy—an embodiment of sunshine itself, wherever they happened to be. He would gather a bouquet of them right this minute and bring them with him to Green Gables. He pulled out a pocket knife and worked away at three of the thick stalks, before bundling them in his arms and continuing on his way.

Indeed, anything that might make Anne smile was well worth his time. The fever had also taught Gilbert just how much Anne Shirley was a part of his very being. He would never have recovered without her by his side, singing to him, and whispering sweet words of love and comfort and belonging; that he knew for sure. She had kept his heart beating—she had been broken and tortured herself, and yet she had stopped at nothing to make sure each breath which left his lungs was followed by another. The knowledge that Anne loved him so wholly and completely and _unconditionally_ was almost more than his heart could bear.

Gilbert felt giddy as a schoolboy as he opened the gate to Green Gables and walked up the garden path. He never reached the porch steps, however, for he was distracted by a flash of red underneath the old sycamore tree on the west side of the house. He looked over to see Anne, perched upon the wooden swing which hung from the its eaves, and facing in the opposite direction. She was not rocking back and forth; rather, she seemed to be engrossed in a book. Gilbert couldn't help but think that she was a perfect vision of summer, in a blue and white checkered sundress, with her hair running in two neat braids down her back.

He crept around the side of the house and tiptoed lightly up behind her, trying not to make a sound. Then, setting the sunflowers carefully upon the ground, he reached forward and grabbed both of the swing's ropes in his hands, tugging suddenly upon them. As was expected, Anne gave a tiny shriek as she steadied herself, and her book fell to the ground.

"Good morning, sunshine," Gilbert greeted, as he leaned around the side of the swing and planted a kiss on her cheek.

"Goodness, Gilbert, you scared me half to death!" she exclaimed, although not without a smile. Gilbert only raised his eyebrows at her.

"As someone who has personal experience with '_half to death'_, I'm going to have to say that you're exaggerating slightly," he declared with a wink.

"Only you would _continue_ to make jokes about that, Gilbert," Anne scolded, with a roll of her eyes. "It's really rather morbid."

"I'm here, aren't I? And shouldn't I be the judge of that?" Gilbert countered with a smirk. Anne merely stared at him. "Anyway… I brought you something." Gilbert leaned down and scooped the flowers up off of the floor.

Anne stood from the swing and turned around to face him. Her eyes lit up as she beheld the bouquet. "Oh Gilbert, they're stunning! I've always felt sunflowers to be the happiest of all God's blossoms, don't you think?" she reckoned, as she took them into her arms and fingered a few of their golden petals. "Thank you, Gil," she added. Gilbert nodded his welcome.

"Oh, I wanted to ask you something," Anne said, after gathering the flowers to her face and smelling them. "Alice Penhallow's wedding is on Saturday. I wonder if you're feeling well enough to join me?"

It took Gilbert a moment to recall who Alice Penhallow even was. But then, he surmised, it didn't actually matter who she was—he would love to attend any party with Anne… but he also did not want to impose. "But I haven't been invited—" he started.

"You'll be my escort, of course," Anne said simply.

Gilbert wasn't completely familiar with wedding etiquette, but he supposed Anne knew more about it than he did. "Ah, a prestigious position. Well then, I accept."

"Wonderful," Anne said with a smile.

"I could hardly pass up an evening with you, especially with less than two weeks before I'm off to Kingsport, and you shortly after to Summerside," Gilbert added. He saw an awkward look pass over Anne's features, although it quickly disappeared.

"Oh, yes…" was all she replied.

"When did you say your term started?"

"Er… I didn't say," Anne said, dropping her gaze to the ground.

"When is it, then?" asked Gilbert, wondering why she wasn't being more forward with him.

"Well I… I'd have to check. A week after your own term starts, I think?"

Gilbert felt it rather odd that Anne did not know the exact date in which classes at Summerside would commence. "And have you settled where you'll be living?"

"I haven't gotten to that part yet," she admitted. Anne was definitely acting strange. She seemed not the slightest bit excited nor interested in her upcoming move to Summerside. In the end, Gilbert attributed this to their inevitable separation. Indeed, it had occupied his mind greatly over the past couple of weeks; the whole situation felt rather cruel. He had come so close to losing Anne, as he waged war with the fever. But he had come through it—they were on the other side, yet he must be parted with her nonetheless. Gilbert wanted nothing more than to be able to see Anne everyday. Yet nothing was to be done; they could not marry now, and Anne needed to work.

Gilbert decided it would be best to drop the subject, and Anne suggested they enter the house, so that she might find a vase for the flowers. As they passed by the kitchen, Gilbert discerned Davy's voice from within, all tenor and no bass. He appeared to be talking to Marilla; Gilbert could not make out the words, but he seemed very concerned about something.

"What's all the fuss about?" Gilbert inquired, as he and Anne made their way to the living room.

"Oh, Davy's all up in arms about the matter of a kite," Anne sighed. Gilbert eyed her quizzically, imploring her to continue. "Well, as you know—or maybe you don't, since you haven't been well enough to attend church—the end of summer picnic is the weekend after next. And the boys have concocted this grand plan to have a kite-flying competition. Well, the problem is that Davy has no kite. And neither Mrs. Lynde, Marilla, nor I know anything about making one up."

Gilbert smiled; such a competition sounded exactly like something he might have thought up when he was Davy's age. He had certainly spent many hours flying kites with Charlie, Fred, Moody, and the other boys, and they were always bickering over who was the better flyer. Gilbert had even learned a few modest tricks, although he hadn't practiced them in years.

"That sounds like quite the problem," he said seriously, although a small smile began to creep onto his face.

"Indeed," agreed Anne, "he's been talking of nothing else."

"You know, I find it rather amusing…" Gilbert remarked, his voice somewhat arrogant.

"What?"

"You've not been able to find a solution to Davy's kite-making woes?"

"No-o," she replied slowly, realizing he was toying with her somehow, and eying him cautiously.

"Well, the answer to Davy's dilemma is, quite literally, staring you in the face." Anne cocked her head at him, trying to make sense of his train of thought.

"I'm rather offended, really," Gilbert stated, folding his arms in mock disappointment. "Did it not occur to you, Anne, that perhaps _I_ may know how to make up a kite?"

Anne's eyes narrowed for a moment, before widening into saucers. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "No, I didn't!"

"Indeed," Gilbert remarked smugly. "That stings, Anne."

"Oh, come off it, Gil!"

He smiled at her mischievously—little did he know, that was the very smile that would always drive her wild. "Well… what say we take him to town tomorrow and buy the materials? And then we'll bring them back here and I'll help him build it."

This plan was soon after proposed to a very ecstatic Davy, who agreed enthusiastically. And so the next morning, Gilbert found himself helping the boy browse through fabrics at Lawson's store, while Anne thumbed through spools of ribbon.

"Those printed patterns are too expensive, Davy. How about just plain red?" Gilbert suggested. He saw Davy furrow his brow, and prepared himself for a struggle.

"But plain red is _boring._ Milty Boulder says his mother stitched stars onto his… silver and gold stars!" Davy exclaimed, waving his arms in the air dramatically.

"Do I look like the type of person that can sew stars onto kites?" Gilbert asked rhetorically. "And also, Davy, I'll believe that when I see it."

"Indeed, you can't put much stock in what Milty says," Anne said sweetly, as she ran a stretch of thick blue ribbon around her thumb.

"Now, it will be a nice, sensible kite for you, Davy," Gilbert insisted. "I'll tell you what… the striped patterns are not much more costly than the plain fabric. Why don't you choose one of those?" Davy looked into Gilbert's stern face and, apparently seeing Gilbert wasn't about to change his mind, decided that stripes was as good a compromise as he could hope for. And so a red and blue striped fabric was selected, along with matching blue ribbon for the tail. They then searched out a roll of string and some long wooden rods, made their purchase, and exited the shop.

"Don't you want to stop at the post office, Anne?" Davy chirped, as they made their way back down the street. Gilbert glanced over at Anne and saw her eyes widen slightly at Davy's innocent question.

"I don't believe so, Davy," she said simply, although Gilbert detected a hint of unease in her voice. Davy was not to be thus silenced.

"Are you sure? You've made such a point of going there every day. I've seen you leave first thing every morning. What are you expecting, Anne? I want to know." If Anne hadn't looked flustered before, she most certainly did now.

"It's nothing, Davy," she said pointedly, apparently trying to end the subject.

"If you say so," Davy muttered in defeat.

"I didn't know you've been visiting the post office every morning," Gilbert remarked out loud, although more to himself than to Anne. He wasn't sure why it bothered him—there was no reason for Anne to inform him of everything she did.

"Ah, well… yes," Anne hesitated, "I didn't think to mention it… it's nothing, really. I'm just waiting for a letter from a friend." Anne was staring very intently at the ground, as if she might trip were she to lift her gaze. If she had looked up, she would have seen Gilbert raise an eyebrow.

"A friend?" he asked.

"Oh, yes… Phil, if you really want to know." Anne continued to stare at the ground.

"Ah," was all Gilbert replied, for Anne clearly did not wish to discuss the matter further. He spoke of it no more, although he was very intrigued—Anne wasn't known to keep secrets from him.

Gilbert spent the rest of the morning hours at Green Gables, helping Davy build the kite. He taught him how to cut the rods and fasten them together, before showing him how to measure the fabric to fit. Then he, himself, did the stitching. Anne watched him handle the needle, apparently surprised at this hidden talent of his; he flashed her a smug look as he worked. Shortly after dinner, the kite was ready. Gilbert then spent the next hour in the garden, teaching Davy how to fly it.

It felt good to be out in the afternoon air again, doing something productive. And judging by the adoring look in Anne's eyes, it meant a lot to her that he was helping Davy. Gilbert had no siblings, and so he had never quite had an experience like this before, besides the day he taught Dora to dance, and that had been quite different. He decided he would have liked having a younger brother very much.

As he left Green Gables that evening, he felt a certain sense of satisfaction in a day well spent. Yet occupying his thoughts still more was the memory of Anne's behavior as they had walked by the post office that morning. She had been aloof—evasive. She was up to something, and he wondered what she might be keeping from him, and why.

… … …

A few days later, Gilbert stood in front of the mirror in the washroom, brushing his hands over the thick locks on top of his head in an attempt to settle down a rather persistent curl that insisted on sticking straight up from the rest. He pumped a bit of water onto his fingers and ran them through his hair, hoping to wrestle it down that way.

Seeing that the stubborn lock could not be reconciled with, he waved a hand through the air in defeat, before leaning into the sink and splashing a bit of water on his face. As he dabbed at it with a towel, he took in his appearance. In the weeks since the fever, his face seemed to have returned to its usual color, although his cheeks still looked rather thin. His eyes still wore a tired expression, and he pressed his thumbs to their corners, as if this would somehow remedy the situation. The white dress shirt he wore was far too baggy. He tucked it into his trousers as tightly as he could and smoothed his vest over the top. Next he slipped into a gray pinstriped suit jacket; it fit loosely in the shoulders, but it was the smallest one he had.

Alice Penhallow's wedding was tonight, and he was determined to look as well as possible. Although the wedding was in East Grafton, there were bound to be some Avonlea residents there, and he would rather not give the wedding guests much to gossip about, if he could help it. Deciding there wasn't much more to be done about his worn features, he made his way down the stairs and, after giving his mother a kiss on the cheek and saddling up the horse and buggy, set off to pick up Anne.

As he finally knocked on the door of Green Gables, he rocked back and forth on his heels in anticipation, fully aware that Anne would be dressed up and looking as radiant as ever. He was eager to lay his eyes upon her, and he felt a slight fluttering in his stomach. It had been over two years since he had escorted Anne to an event, besides Phil's wedding. And all of the other times, they had been nothing more than chums.

Gilbert heard muffled footsteps behind the door, which was promptly opened by Davy.

"Hello, Davy," Gilbert said, while glancing behind him for a glimpse of Anne.

"Hello, Gilbert!" Davy replied animatedly, before turning around and bellowing at the top of his lungs: "ANNE! Gilbert is here!"

"_Alright, Davy_!" came Anne's sweet, distant voice from upstairs.

"He's here to pick you up!" he yelled back.

"_Yes, just a minute now, Davy dear,_" Gilbert heard her respond in a slightly strained voice.

"You'd better come on in, Gilbert, she's _getting ready,_" Davy insisted, in a tone that implied he thought this a rather alien and unnecessary task. "She never used to _get ready_ before, yet now she always does. What do women mean when they say '_getting ready_,' Gilbert? I want to know."

Gilbert laughed as Davy let him into the house. "To be honest, Davy, I'm just as clueless about it as you... but the one thing I've learned is that it's best not to ask them about it." Gilbert gave him a wink, as Davy thought this over a moment.

"You're probably right about that," he agreed. "Alright then, I'm off to the garden, to practice flying my kite. I'm getting better, Gilbert. You would be very proud of me."

"I am proud of you, Davy," Gilbert insisted, as he tousled Davy's hair. Davy shirked away, before looking up at Gilbert admiringly. He then bid him farewell and skipped out of the house.

Gilbert was left alone in the living room, where he waited patiently for Anne to emerge. His ears perked up when he heard her bedroom door open and close, and he turned his gaze expectantly to the upstairs landing. As she appeared at the top of the stairs, Gilbert quite literally forgot how to breathe. He stared at her in awe. There she was, her hair brought completely up on top of her head while a few golden-red strands framed her face. And she was wearing—could it be? Yes, it could. Falling elegantly from her shoulders was an inky purple gown, of a light, flowing fabric. It swished elegantly around her body as she slowly descended the stairs, and it seemed to almost twinkle as the light from the windows struck it.

When she wore that very dress three years before, Gilbert had been struck with the impulse to leap up the stairs and sweep her off of her feet; yet this time, he found himself rendered immobile, entranced by the very sight of her. As Anne descended the last step, she brushed a loose curl from her face, before giggling rather girlishly at the stunned look on his face.

"I said I'd wear it for you sometime," she said simply. So she had, and Gilbert remembered with painful clarity the hopeless feeling that had filled him then; he had feared he would not live to see this day.

"Uh-huh," was all he managed to reply. Anne giggled again. Then she leaned in and kissed him; placing her hands delicately around his neck. Surely this was a dream come to life.

"Alright then, shall we get going?" Anne proposed, after drawing back and adjusting an earing.

"Hmm?" Gilbert replied faintly. "Oh, yes." He then took her hand and led her out of the house.

Anne talked very animatedly throughout the entire ride to East Grafton. Gilbert, having finally regained his wits, engaged her gladly. Anne seemed extremely happy today—even more so than usual. But, he supposed, why shouldn't she be? Hadn't she once told him that few things made her happier than weddings?

The ceremony was held outside, on the wide lawn in front of the Penhallows' house. Once it was through, the chairs were taken around to the back, where a dozen tables had been set up under the shade of several overhanging maple trees. Lanterns had been hung from their boughs, while the tables were decorated with ivy, along with orange and purple blossoms. Anne commented to Gilbert that surely the wood nymphs which lived in the leafy recesses of the maples had come down and decorated the place themselves.

Gilbert was pleased to see that Fred and Diana were also at the wedding. Diana and Anne found each other after the ceremony and embraced enthusiastically, before going to find seats for the four of them; meanwhile, Gilbert joined Fred at the refreshment table.

"We're so pleased to see you doing well, Gilbert," said Fred, as he ladled two glasses of lemonade. "We had thought, well… never mind." His plump cheeks immediately colored with embarrassment.

"It certainly is nice to be out and about again," replied Gilbert, brushing aside Fred's last comment, although more for his friend's sake than his own.

"It's a shame you'll be leaving so soon for Redmond," Fred remarked, stepping aside and allowing Gilbert a turn at the lemonade bowl. "I would have liked to have you around Avonlea again. How long is your medical course?"

"Three years," Gilbert replied. "It's a long time, I know."

"Diana and I were engaged for three years," Fred stated flatly. "They'll be the longest three years of your life," he added with a grimace.

"Thanks for the encouragement," Gilbert replied sarcastically. "At least you were able to see her often."

"Yes, that's true," Fred mused, as he glanced over at Diana. "That's really too bad you'll be apart…_. although,_" he added as an afterthought, "it will make some things easier."

"What?" Gilbert asked, unsure what Fred was getting at.

"Oh, you know..." Fred said pointedly, as he leaned back against the table and placed a hand briefly on Gilbert's shoulder. "As you said, three years is a long time…" He raised his eyebrows here, and Gilbert finally discerned his friend's meaning. He then glanced over at Anne; his spine began to tingle as he beheld her beauty, and the way her dress fell elegantly down her back... he blushed uncomfortably as he thought about what he might do to that dress, if only they were married. It was something he had thought about increasingly often, no matter how hard he tried to push those desires away.

"I'm sure you'll be fine," Fred assured him, sensing the direction of Gilbert's contemplation. "Just prepare yourself, because it won't get any easier."

"_Indeed,"_ thought Gilbert, as he mulled over Fred's words. Of course Fred was right in implying that his longing for Anne would only grow stronger—Gilbert had realized this himself, during the first few months of their engagement. Yet the fever had wiped such thoughts temporarily from his mind. Such struggles had seemed trivial, when the future in and of itself had been so unsure. Now that the fever was behind him, Gilbert was left once again to contemplate the struggle Fred had alluded to. He did have to disagree with his friend, however, on the notion that spending those three years apart might be better for both of them.

The wedding breakfast passed jovially, and Gilbert had never been more proud to have Anne on his arm. Although he engaged readily in conversation with the other guests, his eyes were nearly always fixed on her—she had succeeded this night in captivating his very soul; he could think of nothing else. He treasured every second, knowing that in just over a week, he would be parted from her. He reveled in the music of her laughter and the feel of her hand upon his, along with the sweet fragrance which emanated from her hair, and the sight of that deep purple dress draped daintily around her slender form.

As they shared a dance under the light of the lanterns, Gilbert was overcome with a familiar desire—the very same desire he felt when he had danced with her in that very dress, three years before. Yet this time was different; this time, he could do something about it. And he _would_ do something about it. As the dance ended, Gilbert grabbed hold of Anne's hand and gently led her away from the twinkling lights, and toward the edge of the garden.

"What are we doing, Gilbert?" Anne asked, as she allowed him to lead her through a hedge of hydrangeas and into the night.

"I'm stealing you away," Gilbert replied plainly. "You promised, remember?" He looked back at her and grinned, only to have his breath catch in his throat once again, as he saw the way the moonlight fell upon her face, painting it a soft, delicate white. Yet this was not the place. He led her still further, over a footbridge and through a wooded area of aspens turned gradually to spruces, until they found themselves in a little clearing where the trees had thinned. Gilbert led her around the clearing until he found a place for them to sit.

"If you'll remember, Anne, I said I wanted you to myself," Gilbert reminded her, as he made himself comfortable on a particularly grassy patch of earth, leaning his back on a fallen log behind him. "If we're living my dream, I want to get it just right." He took off his suit jacket and, heedless of the damage it might cause it, laid it on the ground next to him, creating a place for Anne to sit. Anne settled down next to him and, much to his pleasure, turned slightly sideways, leaning her knees inwards so they rested against his legs, while she lay her head on his shoulder.

"There we have it," Gilbert said with satisfaction, as he brought Anne's hand onto his lap.

"And is it everything you imagined it to be?" Anne asked, as she nestled further into him. The heat of her was electrifying, and Gilbert was consumed by warmth and desire both, although he resisted the urge to act upon it.

"It's better," he declared, as he began to stroke her fingers with his thumb. They sat that way a while; the moon cast a sort of celestial glow over the ground below. The only sound was of faintly rustling leaves above them, and of Anne's soft breathing against his neck.

"What a summer we have had, don't you think, Gilbert?" Anne remarked quietly. Gilbert thought back to that last day of April, when he had made up his mind to try, one last time, to fight for Anne. How much had happened since then! It felt like so long ago.

"Would you change it, if you could?" she asked next. "The fever, I mean."

Gilbert was a bit surprised by her question, and he took a moment to think it over. He had gone through the worst hell of his life during his bout with the fever, yet he now realized, he would go through it again in a heartbeat. Somehow, through it all, their love had deepened—they had been laid bare before each other and it had bonded them in a way words simply could not describe. Gilbert had never thought he could treasure Anne's love any more than he already did, but after he had nearly been taken from the world—and Anne herself—he had realized even further how precious she was to him.

"No," Gilbert said firmly. "I wouldn't change it. It brought me closer to you." He squeezed her hand as he said it. Anne sat up a little and placed her chin on Gilbert's shoulder, looking up at him for a moment with her gray eyes; the moonlight reflected in them, causing them to glimmer like the stars themselves.

"Then neither would I," she said, before bringing her face upwards and kissing him briefly. Gilbert brought his arm around her and tightened her body next to his own. He wanted so badly to turn that simple kiss into something more… "What happens next... in your dream?" Anne asked him. Gilbert found himself gazing at her long red lashes, and those freckles he loved so.

"Well," he said, a bit embarrassed at the thought that they could not possibly do _everything_ he had dreamed of just now, "you kissed me a bit more strongly than that." Anne laughed, as she straightened herself up and leaned in again, this time placing the hand that was not held by his on the side of his face, as she kissed him deeply. Gilbert closed his eyes at her touch. He ran a hand up and down her back; he could feel the soft knobs of her spine through her dress, along with the way the airy fabric gave way to the smooth skin of her neck. He leaned in and kissed her there, and she let out a strained sigh. He drew back and gazed at her.

"And then?" she breathed.

"Well, I laid you down on the grass…" he pressed her shoulder lightly, preparing to lower her down. He could see a look of excitement mixed with—_was it fear?_—cross over her face. She resisted just slightly.

"Don't worry, Anne, you can trust me," Gilbert whispered quietly in her ear. "_Trust me."_ And so Anne allowed him to push her gently down to the ground. He lay next to her and propped himself up on one elbow. He gently brushed away a few red curls which had fallen over her face with his fingertips. And then he leaned in and kissed her, first softly, then a little more fiercely, although no more forcefully than he could handle, without succombing to the need for more. He couldn't lose control now, not when Anne had trusted him so—not when they had those three long years ahead of them. He ran his hand over her shoulder—how easy it would be to brush aside her sleeve and feel the bare skin under it! Yet he knew he could not, and so he didn't. Instead, he felt around for her hand and laced his fingers into hers, in order to keep them from wandering. And he kissed her for a long while, until he could stand the temptation no longer, and withdrew.

… … …

Gilbert took the long way home to Avonlea, knowing he would have to say goodbye to Anne when they arrived, and wishing he didn't have to. He was very tired—it had been a long night for him, and he was not back to his old strength. Yet he was very much aware of how little time they had left to spend together, before he left for Kingsport. He tried not to think about it, and therefore it was all he could think about.

It was nearly midnight by the time he steared the buggy down the lane to Green Gables. The house was dark and quiet, and he stopped a little way down the lane, so as not to wake those inside with the clicking of hooves and clattering of wheels. He helped Anne to the ground and they walked hand in hand the rest of the way to the house.

As he leaned in to kiss her goodnight, she looked up at him shyly.

"I have something to show you," she said. "Wait here, I'll only be a minute." Then she tiptoed quietly into the house. A minute later she returned, bearing an oil lamp and a piece of paper. She seemed rather nervous as she set the lamp down on the porch railing and pressed the paper into his hand.

"Read it," she said simply. Gilbert unfolded it slowly, at a loss as to what might be written there. He brought it under the lamplight and discerned it to be a letter from Phil. He leaned in closer and read:

"Hallow's End

_"Patterson Street, __Kingsport, Nova Scotia_

"_Tuesday, August 22nd_

"_Dearest Anne,_

"_I was overjoyed upon receiving your letter this morning. I rushed right down to the church, where Jonas was preparing his sermon, to tell him the news! Indeed, we finally managed to raise enough money to finish the renovations to the schoolhouse, but have not found a solitary soul wanting to apply for the position, despite the board's offering of an extra ten dollars a month as incentive. I would be overjoyed to recommend you to them! You can live right here with us at the manse, if you like. Jo says he won't mind a bit._

"_I must admit, although I was beside myself with pleasure upon reading of your proposal, I can't say I'm surprised. Three years is an awfully long time to spend away from Gilbert, and I never thought you'd be able to handle it. Well, this alternative will just suit everyone perfectly, won't it? And I am sure you will adore the children—they may be poor as a church mice, and indeed, many of them are desolate little foundlings, but they sure are dears. Write me back straightaway and I will get it all settled._

"_Love as always,_

"_Philippa Blake_

Gilbert was quite literally speechless as he finished reading the letter and looked down into Anne's face. He opened his mouth to speak, but he did not know what to say. He could hardly comprehend the meaning of Phil's message, nor process the myriad of emotions it had inspired. Anne—come with him to Kingsport? It seemed too good to be true.

"So... what do you think?" Anne asked timidly. She looked very nervous, and she subconsciously traced a pattern across the floor with her toe.

"Well I... I..." Gilbert stammered. "They've opened a school?" was all he could manage to ask.

"Yes," replied Anne. "Phil had mentioned in a letter about a month ago that they were raising money within the church, to do some renovations to the old schoolhouse. It was in disrepair—both the church and the school are on Patterson Street in the slums, you know—and it wasn't even in use; many of the children simply stayed home, or walked well over a mile to the school on Miller Street. Well, she had mentioned that although they were on the point of finishing the renovations, they were having trouble finding someone to fill the position. Many of the children are orphans, Gil, just like me. And my heart breaks for them."

"I see," Gilbert said slowly, still trying to process the enormity of the decision Anne was considering, and what it would mean for their future. Anne seemed to mistake his silence for disapproval, because she quickly continued on.

"I wasn't even considering the job at first, but after everything with the fever… I almost lost you, Gil! And I've only just got you back. And I can't bear the thought of spending the next three years away from you. I just can't. And I reasoned… well, there are children everywhere, Gilbert. There are just as many children in Kingsport as there are in Summerside, or anywhere else in the world. So why would I choose to work somewhere so far away, when there are children right next to Redmond that desperately need a teacher?"

Anne wore a very serious look, and Gilbert could see how desperately she wanted him to agree to her plan. Attempting to keep his hands steady, Gilbert folded up the letter and put it on the railing, next to the lamp.

"Anne," he said softly, "I think it's a wonderful idea. But do you realize what you are giving up, to come to Kingsport with me? I can't let you do that." Anne shook her head fiercely before taking his hands in hers.

"I'll admit, the principalship at Summerside would be a much more… _reputable_… job. But I'll still be doing something useful. Those children come from very hard lives, and I can be a light for them."

"And the pay…" Gilbert started, but Anne interrupted him.

"Well sure, the pay is not nearly as much, but I'll save money by boarding with Phil. I thought of finding a position at a high school or a ladies' college, but of course it's too late in the summer to apply. But I'm sure something will open up next year. And in the meantime I can work with Phil."

"In the slums..."

"Yes, Gilbert, in the slums—with children that are not so very different from what I once was." Gilbert could see the fire burning behind Anne's determined eyes.

"And you… you would do that for me?" he asked, although he did not know why, for he knew very well what her response would be. In truth, he was incredibly excited by Anne's idea, and his heart beat wildly at the notion that she might come to Kingsport with him. But the position in Summerside was a lot for her to give up, and Patterson Street was a sad, dreary place.

"Of course I would, Gilbert. I've decided to spend my life with you, remember?" Anne declared, briefly flashing the pearl circlet on her finger. "And I want to start now. You have no idea how stubborn I can be, when I put my mind to something."

Gilbert stepped closer to Anne and brought her fingers to his lips. "I think I have a fairly good idea," he smiled, before kissing them. The more he thought about Anne's plan, the more it agreed with him. Yes, she would be giving up her principalship, but at least it was only for one year. She could find a similar job in Kingsport next fall, and in the meantime, maybe she was right about the Patterson Street school—if anyone could give those kids the love and education they deserved, it was Anne.

"Alright then, Anne," Gilbert assented, and the moment the words left his mouth, a feeling of ecstasy spread through him. He wouldn't be separated from Anne, after all! He would get to see her nearly every day.

"You mean it?" Anne gasped. "You'll agree?" She held her breath, waiting for him to speak again.

"I'd be a fool not to," he replied, and his face told the rest. Anne gave out a squeal of delight and wrapped her arms around him. She seemed to practically shake with joy. Gilbert lifted her up and spun her around, laughing as he did so. Then he held her tightly to him, thinking that tonight, surely, must have been one long, beautiful dream.

"Now I know what you were being so secretive about, this past week," he remarked, after he released her.

"I'm sorry about that, Gil," Anne replied shyly. "I would have told you, only Phil's letter about the search for a schoolteacher came more than a month ago, and I didn't know if the position was still open… I didn't want to get your hopes up, nor mine."

"That's understandable, I suppose," Gilbert admitted. "Well, Anne-girl, it seems we have come to yet another bend in our road… I'm glad we're rounding it together."

"As am I," agreed Anne. She stood up on the tips of her toes and kissed him.

"You know, telling me this, so late at night... it's rather cruel, do you know that?" he stated. Anne cocked her head at him. "Well," he continued, "how do you expect me to go home and sleep with this on my mind?"

Anne laughed as she nabbed him lightly in the ribs. "Well then, since you are not to sleep tonight, I can't see what good going home now will do you. Suppose we sit here a little while before you go?"

"Seems logical to me."

And so Gilbert settled himself on the porch steps, while Anne nuzzled up next to him in the way she had before. And there they chatted, of a future full of each other, until dawn's first light began to tinge the sky.

**The End**

* * *

**I cannot believe this tale has drawn to a close! Thank you a million times for all the love and support for this story. Please believe me when I say it really kept me going!**** And the fact that you have made it through both stories is the best compliment I could hope for... for no one reads over 100,000 words on accident. Thank you for giving me a bit of your time. ****I'd love to hear what you think, now that all is said and done. I've moved on past this story but I still love to read your reviews!**

**And to answer your question, YES, there is a sequel in progress! It is called Heart's Desire; you can find it on my profile, or on the forum. Much love as always,**

**Jenn :)**


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